National Security
by fingers-falling-upwards
Summary: Formerly "The Flavors of the Days." Guard a person of interest. That was all their mission was supposed to be. Who knew it would be a personified country with the mind-set of a 7-year-old. All Peter knew was that it was going to be a long year. This is a piece about Alfred and his citizens.
1. The Day Begins!

Hey fingers-falling-upwards here**.**

_**I firmly advise you read below to avoid intense confusion.**_

Technically, this is a crossover. However it has become PAINFULLY obvious that no one has seen white collar lol. Which is fine. This is a crossover between "White Collar" and "Hetalia." I love both of them dearly, but knowledge of both is not necessary. You can freely enjoy this as a story in your own section of preference. You may get confused. Oh well. Die hard fans probably won't care. Anything to get their fix. (Been there, done that.)

All you need to know is that Neal Caffrey is an ex-con, (art thief mainly.) He now works for the white collar bureau with his partner Peter Burke. Mozzie is an extremely odd friend of Neal's. He is paranoid about the Gov. and is still a thief. He does not get along with Peter.

I do not own "White Collar" or "Hetalia"

**Chapter one:**

**"The day begins"**

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><p>Neal Caffrey, 'reformed' international art thief, strode into the federal building of white collar crimes at nine that morning. The soft click of his expensive Italian shoes on the tile floor was barely audible over the low murmur of activity. His gait was self-assured, and the slight smile that played upon his lips seemed designed to capture the curiosity of his audience as surely as a magician's top hat.<p>

Curiosity was a valuable weapon. In the hands of a master, it provided an unparalleled sense of allure and mystique which could be used to sway even the most apathetic and misanthropic personalities. And Neal was a master of this art.

He chuckled inwardly as he met a few onlookers' eyes, managing to make the coffees he was carrying look more like an accessories. There were always onlookers when you possessed such capturing features like Neal had.

The suave man suddenly flinched as he heard a shout echoing loudly down from the other end of the hall. He hurried away, ignoring the inquisitive glances thrown his way.

"Good morning, Ne—" He brushed past the pretty secretary named Amanda without a glance or even the usual flirting. He heard it again, and his pace doubled, erring on the level of the uncouth _power walk_.

Neal had just reached the elevator when he heard someone call out his name.

"Neal! Hold the elevator!"

He frantically pushed the close door buttons to the alarm of the other passengers. It was to no avail, and his partner (and occasional friend), Peter Burke, slid through the elevator doors, catching his midsection awkwardly. In the awkward silence, the doors reflexively opened again to allow the entry of the man. The federal agent panted slightly, showing that he had, in fact, run down the hallway to catch up to the debatably reformed-con. Inwardly, Neal groaned at how embarrassing Peter could be sometimes and the other man didn't seem to know it! Outwardly though, he gave a smooth smile.

"Good morning, Peter. Why do you look like you ran to work today?" Neal raised his eyebrow, smothering a smile as the older man glared.

"Didn't you hear me call—" he huffed, stare unrelenting. "I was yelling down the hall—" He just frowned and abandoned it. "I swear, one of these days," he muttered, leaving the threat idle and open ended. Neal tried to appear sheepish.

"Sorry, Peter, I didn't hear a thing."

Peter just rolled his eyes.

"I'm not even going to comment on the irony of you running from me," Peter remarked, finally catching his breath.

"I told you I was going to pick you up today," Peter grumbled, giving Neal a look as the elevator began crawling up the building.

"And I left a message on your phone saying I had a ride to work," Neal said, turning on Peter and shooting said look right back at the other man. Peter didn't even bat an eyelash.

"While I was at your house I ran into June," Peter remarked off-handedly, taking pleasure in Neal's slight twitch, before he continued on at a relaxed pace, "She was panicking, because apparently she was going to miss her flight to Europe because her taxi was late. I lent her my car and took the taxi, she told me her driver would drop of my car later." Peter mumbled something that vaguely sounded like "Damn rich people."

"Anyways, the point is that we need to be updated on your living situation; at all times!" He threw extra emphasis on the last three words.

"What am I five? I don't need a babysitter Peter," Neal remarked in an offended tone.

"Yeah, well when your "landlady" leaves you all alone in a multi-million dollar penthouse, this might become _liability_ for us," Peter intoned with an extra dose of sarcasm onto the end, particularly at the word landlady seeing as Neal paid nest to nothing when it came to rent.

"At the very least we need to be informed about what is going on so we can act appropriately," Peter continued.

"What—Geez, Peter. I thought we were beyond all the petty little doubts. Besides, robbing the house I live in? That's a little low class for me."

He looked affronted at such a suggestion. In all actuality, the reason he left early was to avoid Peter finding out about this. Mozzie had said he wanted to plan something later this week, and if they knew June would be out of town, they would no doubt tighten the security on Neal. He really didn't want that.

Neither man seemed to realize the strange looks they were gathering from the other members of the compartment until Neal noticed that people were gradually shifting away from him. Great, now everyone probably thought he was a kleptomaniac or something. He was grateful when the bell rang and together they stepped from the elevator into the bullpen.

"By the way, did Elle like the wine I gave you?" Neal asked, as he gave Peter one of the two coffee cups in his hand.

"Yeah, yeah, sure she did."

Neal frowned at the distracted reply, wondering what had Peter so worked up. Peter caught Jones' arm as he passed on his way to his desk. "Hey, do you know who's in my office? And besides that, who let him in there?"

He pointed to the glass wall of his office that was clearly visible from the entrance, and low and behold there was a figure hunched over his desk, back turned so that only a mess of blonde hair was visible.

"Oh him? He got here a few hours ago with some pretty heavy accompaniment," Agent Cinton Jones explained.

Peter's brow furrowed as he took a swig of his coffee.

"Like cop transport? Because I really don't need to be dealing with another criminal so early."

He sighed, ignoring Neal's indignant "Hey! Mostly suspected criminal!" as Jones smiled.

"Maybe you should consider a change in careers then. And no, not cop transport, more like _secret service_transport."

Neal's eyes widened comically, and Peter nearly spit out his coffee.

"The _secret service?"_he asked incredulously at Jones' rueful nod.

What in the world was the Secret service, the elite guard for the president of the United States, doing at the white collar division? Peter was pretty sure he would have gotten a memo if the president was visiting. Or at least he hoped he would have. Not to mention that from what he could see the guy in his office was wearing jeans. People who were transported by the secret service simply did not wear jeans.

"What is this guy? The president?" Peter asked snidely as he stalked up the stairs with Jones and Caffrey at his heel. He refrained from entering, trying to gauge all he could from his mysterious guest.

"I have no clue who he is. Hughes took his handler to his office the moment they arrived and told him to have a seat in yours."

Peter glanced across the way to Hugh's office and noticed he seemed to be having a row with an intimidatingly large, suit-covered man. Actually, it was more like Hughes was yelling at him while the man just sat there stoically.

That kind of stoicism reminded Neal of a wall. He had known many such men in his life of brief imprisonments.

"Handler?" Peter asked with a knowing grin.

"You should have seen the way he was guiding him. Like some dog at the show." Jones smiled back before continuing, "Albeit a much protected dog. It was just a sea of suits. You can only assume the guy was floating somewhere in the middle."

They shared a chuckle.

"Well, he's not the president, that much is sure," Neal observed, having walked smoothly in and taken Peter's usual seat across the desk.

"Neal!" he hissed. The con-man just waved him off.

"It's okay, he's sleeping. Ah, drooling, to be more accurate," he answered, much to Peter's horror as he noticed the wet documents on his desk.

"Though his son is still a possibility; this kid can't be more than twenty." Neal remarked, and Peter took notice of his youth as he not so carefully drew the slobbered papers from under the man.

"Great, just great." Peter sighed, looking at the ruined reports; no way could he turn these in to Hughes.

"It's going to take a week of all-nighters to redo these. Elle's not going to be happy about this," he bemoaned, throwing the smudged inky mass into the waste bin.

"Well, maybe if you explained the situation to Hughes, maybe he'll understand. . ." Recognizing that the word "Hughes" and the word "understand" were antonyms, Jones cut himself off as Peter gave him a distinct looks.

"Abandon all hope," Neal answered in lieu for Jones.

"What am I going to tell Elle?" Peter groaned. Neal patted his shoulders in a show of sympathy.

"You can deal with your wife on your own time, Burke," Hughes snapped, stepping into the office. The hulking man followed; though, he had to duck to avoid hitting the glass.

"Ah, good morning sir," Peter greeted as his eyes travelled over to the tall man beside him.

The man was definitely secret service material. He was 6 ½ feet tall, easily. Massive arms attached to broad shoulders, seemingly contained only by the official-looking black suit in which he was clothed. His face was attractive enough, if a little rough-looking. A square chin jutted out from thin, pressed lips, clean shaven, as was the rest of his face. His black hair was shorn close to his crown–no doubt as was expected by his employers. He looked like he had some Latino heritage from the pigmentation of his skin.

His dark, sparkling eyes regarded them somewhat coldly as they raked about the room finally settling upon his charge. The stony expression changed and he sighed somewhat resignedly as he approached the sleeping teen clearing his throat. It really was a wonder that he had managed to sleep through all of this.

"Sir… Sir, please get up." He sounded weary, though that faded as the young man snored on. Was Neal imagining the twitch that seemed to be developing between the bodyguards brows?

"Sir. Get up. Now. WE ARE IN PUBLIC."

He shook the teen only to be waved aside and gifted with a few unintelligibly mumbles.

"ALFRED JONES! GET UP!" The bod shouted, making the others wince.

Alfred shot up from his chair like it was on fire. His eyes were wild, and he patted down his hair frantically.

"Shit! Arthur, what time is it? I have to catch a . . . plane . . ." His frenzy faded, and his hands froze as he trailed off as he noticed the company he was in.

"Ah… I caught the plane earlier, huh?" The askew glasses dropped off his head into their rightful place, punctuating this statement.

He scratched his head in a sheepish gesture as he pushed the lens up his nose. The bodyguard just shook his head, as though this was a regular occurrence.

"Mr. Jones, you're disgraceful."

Agent Jones looked anxious when he heard this, but calmed when he realized the guard was addressing the boy.

"Alfred, meet Special Agent Reece Hughes, Agent Jones, Agent Burke, and his partner, Neal Caffrey."

The boy energetically shook their hands in the order they were presented.

So this was the notorious Neal Caffery huh? He didn't look like a criminal. Criminals were supposed to be all ugly and twisted looking. He looked like some kind of model. It always had to be the pretty ones, didn't it?

"You guys aren't as special as Special Agent Hughes, huh?" he asked.

His bodyguard grumbled at the observation,

"I didn't think it was necessary to use all of their full titles; they are all Special Agents." He hated when Alfred acted stupid; mostly because he was so good at it.

"Ah, cool. And his last name is Jones too! That's awesome!"

"Alfred," the guard hissed, and Alfred jumped.

"Oh yeah! I'm Alfred F. Jones! Nice ta meetcha!"

"Nice to meet you, too?" Peter returned, and there was an awkward lull.

"So, is it take your kid to work day, or is there some way I can help you?"

Alfred laughed at this. Long and obnoxiously. "Me and Alex? Naw, he's a little young to be having a kid my age!"

He tapped the newly dubbed Alex like one might tap a car. The bodyguard hovered behind him, with a slight twitch to his lips that Neal might almost call a smile.

"I'm guessing that you haven't explained the situation to them yet?" Alex raised an eyebrow at Hughes, who responded gruffly,

"Been busy. Not that you gave us much forewarning about your arrival."

"I am sorry for any inconvenience we may have caused, but as you are aware, Mr. Jones' safety is out top priority. We had to move fast."

Hughes grunted in acknowledgement. Then turning to the three he spoke: "They have found Gilbert Stuart's lost portrait of Benjamin Franklin."

Neal's eyes widened as they slapped a photo of it onto the table. He snatched it up and scanned it over hungrily.

"No way…" he trailed off.

"I know, right!" Alfred smiled, nodding happily.

"Uhm, what's so…" Peter trailed off, gesturing. Neal pried his attentions from the picture towards Peter as he explained.

"Gilbert Stuart has done many famous paintings, including his well-known oil painting of George Washington, _The Lansdowne Portrait_. He produced many paintings of the high class when America was first starting out. It was said that Benjamin Franklin commissioned him for a portrait. However, the portrait was supposedly lost in 1814 when the English and Canadians attacked the capital and set fire to the White House."

Peter let out a low whistle. "Who knew Canadian's could be so feisty, eh?" he joked.

"You obviously haven't seen 'em during hockey season! My brother gets super worked up, it's like he's a different person!" Alfred answered, wide-eyed, and Jones chuckled at this.

"I have cousins up there, and they get really excited. My aunt punched someone last year when a brawl broke out." Agent Jones smiled, and Hughes shot him a look.

"Err, sorry for interrupting. You were saying?"

Alex coughed and picked up the narration. "Anyways, there is documentation that some British soldiers plundered the White House when they burned it down, so there is a chance that one of them could have taken the _Benjamin Portrait_. But nothing ever cropped up."

"I'm guessing someone has come forward with it?" Peter asked.

"Yes. It was found in Russia this past week, and we have sent a retrieval team. They don't seem very willing to part with it, though, especially after they heard about its unusual circumstances."

Alfred's posture gradually became tenser as Hughes continued to explain.

The picture of one of his greatest supporters, friend, and _creator_ was discovered, and he longed to look at it. But now Ivan—no, _Russia,_ he seethed inwardly—was being a jerk about it. Dangling it in front of his face but making up all these excuses not to hand it over. That damn communist. Alfred would give him a piece of his mind when he next saw him. Teach him not to play games with America. He was just sore he lost their last chess game.

The others were beginning to notice Alfred with a growing sense of unease as his form radiated anger and power in a most undiluted form. Where was the absent-minded teen from but moments ago?

Neal was going to say something when Alex bent down and whispered something in the young man's ear that Neal couldn't quite catch, but it made Alfred relax his shoulders a bit and smile with gratitude. Then Alex gave a rare smile and whispered something else.

"Yes! You're really going to take me to McDonald's afterwards? Ah! No, it's too late to back out, I'm holding you to your word!" Alfred's smile was wide and Neal was having trouble picturing the angry look on such an open face.

The other men just looked at each other, unease at the sudden switch of personalities. Maybe Alfred had a Bi-polar disorder. Alex sighed and nodded his head.

"Sweet! It's been forever since I had a Big Mac!" He punched the air somewhat childishly.

"Alfred… It's been less than ten hours, assuming you ate at the McDonald's in England, which I know you did," he finished somewhat sharply.

"Well, yeah, I ate one before I got on my flight, but that was, like, forever ago! Stupid England… Living so damn far away," he pouted. They paid no mind to his unusual phrasing of it, but Alex kicked his chair for good measure.

"Alfred, don't swear it's rude," he chided, giving his charge a peculiar look. Alfred seemed confused. Alex sure was taking this whole 'treating-Alfred-like-a-kid' thing pretty far… Unless…

"Oh... OH! Right! Sorry, 'bout that," he apologized.

"It's a terrible habit of his," Alex provided, and Alfred nodded zealously in agreement.

"Right… I think I can follow along with you, but I don't really see what this has to do with Alfred." Peter spoke a little unsurely, watching the two carefully.

Hughes answered him this time, seemingly miffed about the entire thing. "Now, Gilbert Stuart didn't sign his portraits. Instead he left a mark somewhere on the page, only discernible by those who know to look for it. That's the true final test for authenticity, beyond the paper, paint tests and what have you."

"What kind of mark?" Neal looked up interestedly.

"He trusted one person with it before his death, and that person passed it to his son before he died and that person to his son, you get the picture? It travelled father to son for generations, so only his descendant can actually authenticate the painting."

"…Don't tell me, this is him?" Peter guessed sarcastically, waving at the teen whose grin stretched from ear to ear.

"It's awesome, right? You can actually trace the line straight down to me from my great, great, great, great, great, great, great, great, great, great-"

"Yes, I think we get the point, Alfred," Alex interrupted placing a hand over Alfred's mouth to smother the steady stream of words.

"Artists seem to flock to his family, because he holds several secret marks from other artists throughout history." Neal's eyes flashed, and Peter studied him with a furrowed brow. "Because of this he is naturally a huge target."

"The only way they have been kept safe through the generations is their anonymity, which has recently been leaked by a mole." Alex looked somewhat distressed when he spoke, and Neal laughed inwardly at his motherly behavior.

"They know his family's name and the address of the main estate in Washington, D.C." He explained and Hughes took the reigns.

"If the painting is a fake and if the conspirators have caught wind of the final test, then Alfred's life is undoubtedly in danger," Hughes spoke plainly, catching his agents' eyes. "But if we pull all the bells and whistles and the paintings not a fake, then we will unwillingly have given his identity away for the others to try."

"It's a real Catch-22." Alfred piped in, pulling Alex's hand from his mouth.

"Well, if they attack him, then we'll know for sure they're trying to cover for the fact it's a fake, right?" Jones pitched in.

"But how would we prove it? Without Alfred, the final test there can't be done and any definitive way of knowing will be lost. Not to mention, if they manage to kill him and make it look like an accident. Then there's no way to implicate them," Hughes said, frowning and Alex glared at them.

"And of course, Alfred being dead would be bad, obviously." Hughes rolled his eyes.

"What about your parents or any brothers? Do they know the secret?" asked Jones, but Alfred shook his head.

"I don't got any parents anymore. I have a brother, Mattie, but he and I were separated when we were younger, and he was raised in Canada. Arthur is… Well, it's complicated, but he lives in England, so it's just me."

"So why not secure the secret with another party? Someone you trust, like Mattie?" Neal asked.

"Well, then it wouldn't be a secret, now would it? This is how it remained that way throughout history." Alfred's eyes suddenly flashed with a spark.

"That man trusted my great-whatever-grandfather with the key to all his works. He whispered it to him on his deathbed. I think it's worth something to uphold that trust."

He said it with a smile, but the edge to his tone wasn't lost on any of them.

It was Hughes that broke the impromptu silence.

"We are having the painting transported here from Dimitrovgrad, Russia; however, they have their own customs and transportation problems to deal with. The government is still arguing the full release of it to us, but at the very least, we hope to have it transported here in a year or so, and we can run our own authenticity tests."

He paused to arrange his thoughts, and Peter couldn't help ask what this had to do with them beyond possibly assisting with testing the painting when it arrived.

"I was just getting to that," Hughes snapped irritably.

"Alfred has to be put under constant supervision until they deliver the painting and maybe even beyond that depending on how that pans out."

Alfred looked extremely cross at having to be supervised. For God's sake! He was The United States of _America. _It wasn't like anyone could actually kill him. Well they could, but that would be a long and costly campaign he would be delighted to meet head on. Besides that point, the people that were supposed to be protecting him were like two-hundred years his juniors. If anyone would be doing the protecting, it would probably be him.

Screw that! It had _always_ been him!

"We can't leave him under the secret service. That'd be like painting a giant bulls-eye on him; what's more is that's what they'll be expecting us to do," he continued, pacing anxiously. "Witness protection is also too obvious."

"We decided that it's crucial that he be guarded by the federal government, and the boys upstairs had the idea to put him under a smaller and less likely division, so it's landed in our laps to guard him." Hughes stopped and stared meaningfully at Peter, who took a step back.

Things were becoming painfully clear to Peter.

"Sir, surely you don't mean me?"

"Yes, I mean you! I'm sure as hell not taking him home with me. My wife would have a heart attack!" Hughes enlightened them.

"But we have cases. I mean, it would be pretty suspicious if we stopped working, right?" Peter scrambled.

There only two types of people Peter simply could not deal with; one was crying women. The other, was teenagers. He just didn't know what to do with them. Too adult like to be treated like a child, but to rebellious to be treated like an adult.

"Who said you could stop working?" Hughes asked raising an eyebrow, and Alfred snickered at the look on Peter's face.

"You will go about your daily life just the same; Alfred will just be tagging along for the ride."

Peter glanced at the teen, who teen stared out the window with a glazed look in his eyes. He felt sheer depression at the prospect of putting up with him for an entire year.

"Ooh, tough break, Peter." Neal patted him on the shoulder.

"But Elle and I are renovating! We don't have room for a guest."

Hughes shrugged.

"Stick him with Caffrey and that weird, little one for all I care. Just don't leave him alone," Hugh's threatened, and Neal winced.

"Ah, sir? I would love to, but I don't really have the space eith—" Hughes raised a brow, telling him he was well aware of his sprawling living situation. He switched tactics. "I'm an ex-con. Who knows what I might do."

Alfred smiled as though he knew it wasn't going to work.

"Oh, we know what you do, every minute of your life," Hughes said pointedly

Alfred laughed, and Neal glared as though his mere presence was the source of all of life's miseries. He just smiled and turned away, whistling some nameless tune.

"Mozzie gets nervous when there are strangers in the house. You don't want to deal with that! He bites, you know! Why just last week he—"

"Neal." Hughes shot him the "yeah-your-bull-shits-not-gonna-cut-it" look, and Neal just sighed resignedly.

"Work this out you two. I'll be in my office. Jones!" He whistled and made a gesture for the other agent to follow him as he stepped out from the office.

Neal and Peter stared at each other for a few moments, trying to find any sign of the others weakness in resolve, before Neal dug a coin from him pocket.

Watching them, Alfred couldn't help but wonder if he should be feeling insulted that neither of them wanted him at their houses. Inwardly he shrugged. It's not like they knew they were turning America away. Besides he got a real kick out of playing stupid teenager, so they would get their dues, albeit in a very annoying roundabout way. Alex raised a brow, as though he knew what Alfred was thinking and the teen smirked evilly.

"Flip a coin?"

"Yeah, nice try." Peter plucked it from his hands to reveal the double sides, looking mildly unimpressed.

"Rock, Paper, Scissors for it?" Neal asked, undeterred.

Peter raised an eyebrow as if to ask if he was joking, but finding the comically serious on his partners face, he stuck his hand out too.

"Rock, Paper, Scissors!" They stared at the results with according glee and despair.

Peter had rock, Neal's face was twisted as he held scissors, and Alfred, who had set upon himself to join, had grenade, which apparently blew everything up, (or so he informed them.)

"Fine. When does this happen?" Neal said, trying not to look sulky.

"Today," Alex spoke up, and Neal groaned, tempted to bang his head against the wall.

"After you get McDonald's with me right?" Alfred asked, excitement shinning in his eyes, and Alex sighed in agreement.

"After we eat an early lunch we'll swing by the summer-house they have here and grab all of his essentials and come back around to drop him off. I'll have to be heading back to the capital afterwards; the president's children have a dentist appointment in a few hours." Alex grimaced at the end, and Alfred laughed empathetically.

"They can be a handful, tell 'em I say hello."

Alex cracked a smile, but Neal's eyes narrowed at this.

"See you guys later; it was cool meeting you!" Alfred called as he eagerly dragged Alex out the door, headed towards McDonald's.

"Err. Good-bye," Alex said awkwardly as he disappeared through the door.

There was a silence at their departure, and Peter let out a low whistle.

"Ooh, tough break, Neal," he said, mocking Neal's earlier words.

"Shut up. He'll be with you, every minute he's not with me, and I think I can come up with some pretty creative stuff when pinched between a wall and Hughes," he warned, and Peter suddenly stopped looking quite so smug.

"Think of all the dinners I can interrupt." Neal mentioned with a smile.

The fed paled.

"You wouldn't—" He cut himself off and stared at Neal blankly for a moment.

"You would."

"I would."

"Coffee run?" Neal offered.

"Double shot of espresso for me. It's going to be a long year…" Peter sighed and dialed his wife's cell.

"Hey Elle, you won't believe the kind of morning I've had. . . ."

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><p>I hope you view this as a piece about Alfred and his citizens. That is what it is meant to be. I hope to explore what it means to be a country. I also hope you enjoy how I do it.<p>

I listened to "Where is the love?" for three hours on repeat.

As always, Audio surf is a bitch.

**Re**view?


	2. Take it Day by Day

I'm alive! (Barely.) First and foremost I want to thank every person who read, and a double-shot to everyone who reviewed. The reviews make my day brighter. Like lots brighter.

Secondly, this is Un-Beta'd. (Dramatic music.) Not by choice, but because I had to. Every Beta I chose either disappears or gets caught up in the roulette game called life. (While I can't really blame 'em, by the Gods it's frustrating!)

Ha, that or I'm scaring them away.

Thirdly, I wrote this chapter twice. Two entirely different stories with entirely different outcomes. (Ha why I wanted a Beta today was to choose between them.) I can only hope I picked the right one to show you all.

Gosh I hope I don't disappoint you all!

(Lol Shout out to FlyingHighDefyingGravity for having philosophically stupid conversations with me~!)

More notes at the bottom, but the song I listened to on repeat was "Do Better" by "Say Anything" Which I don't own.

I also do not own "White Collar" "Hetalia" "Moby Dick" or "The Cat in the Hat" They belong to their respective owners.

Because I have no idea how good/bad this is I would Love~ a review. Please? Even if it's you telling me how terrible it is.

Lastly, **please read the whole thing through.** I know that long paragraphs are ugly, and they hurt your eyes. They hurt mine too! Later this chapter they are really funny so please read all of this!

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><p>Chapter Two: Take it day by day.<p>

_There are no second acts in American lives.~ F. Scott Fitzgerald_

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><p>Peter's watch reflected the light of the midday sun as it filtered through the windows. He pulled it around to check it again. The time still read half past twelve, and he was beginning to worry about what kind of trouble someone could run into on a trip to McDonalds. Neal had already become bored with the waiting game and drummed his fingers on the arm of his chair impatiently.<p>

Together they sat in the confines of the entrance room of their office building. The too-small chairs forced the older man to cross his legs, for fear of tripping a passerby. He watched the people around him coming and going into and out of the building with mild interest.

He observed as a lady in a emerald business suit stride purposefully toward the elevator, only to have it closed in her face. A man nearby stared with apathy as she stomped her heel angrily.

Though he had worked at the same location for years, Peter had never met a quarter of these people before.

An errand boy juggled two full coffee carriers while trying to balance his messenger bag. Spill would be inevitable, but it wouldn't be the first time. When those errand boys eventually quit or became full-time agents, others would come to replace them. Those that had been ordered around before would do the ordering, and it would feel good. He could hear them in his mind barking reprimands when mistakes were made. They would probably even forget that they used to be the poor kid juggling coffee.

'_Rinse and repeat.'_

"How long do you think until they get back?" Neal wondered aloud, Peter stifled a yawn as he turned away from his people watching.

"Hughes said that they would be back before twelve. It's about twelve thirty now. Maybe they got caught up with something last minute." Neal let out a long sigh.

"Something important obviously." He paused before he asked, "Do collage kids do important things?"

Peter shrugged his shoulders.

"Who knows?" Silence followed. Peter turned his thoughts towards his wife. He pondered whether or not he would have time to meet her after work. Maybe surprise her with some nice flowers. They could always grab dinner, and maybe catch a movie afterwards. It would be a good break after the week of take-out and leftovers they'd been through.

Work was really picking up for both of them. Peter seemed to have only entered the building and _not_ been plowed over by Hughes with a case file, today. In exchange he got stuck with Alfred. He wasn't sure yet if the trade was even. Even if Elizabeth was too tired to go out, he was sure she'd appreciate his good intentions.

'_None of my good intentions will matter if we can't wrap up this soon.' _He thought as he glanced at his watch once more.

'_Where the heck is that kid?'_

The sound of his partner tapping furiously on the keypad of his phone drew Peter's attention. No doubt texting some nameless lady friend of his. One of the very many, nameless lady friends he had.

"You do know that any _activities _you participate in after work will have to be put on hold right?" He said raising an eyebrow.

Neal stopped texting for a minute to stare at Peter seriously. It seemed that he hadn't grasped the implications of Alfred living with him.

"You're serious?"

"Dead." Peter nodded before he continued.

"Unless you want to deal with Hughes when Alfred complains about how he can't sleep from all the noise."

"Did you have to phrase it so crudely?" Neal asked irritant, looking over his shoulder to make sure no one else had heard. Peter smiled at his partner's discomfort. He wasn't usually so crass, but there was no easier way to get under Neal's skin than a well placed tactless remark. Well, no easier way except when he brought his delicious deviled ham to work. He still couldn't figure why it bothered him so much . . .

"How long are we supposed to wait for them?" Neal asked, snapping him from his deviled ham thoughts.

"As long as it takes. Hughes gave us the day off to ease Alfred into his new living situation."

"Lucky us. So we have the rest of today off and we get to spend it in the office building waiting for some dopey kid, whom we have to let live with us for some unknown amount of time? I'm beginning to rethink my stance on the county prison. At least there you have your own cell." Neal commented sarcastically.

Peter opened his mouth to make a snarky comment about how he was sure they had a spare cell for him if he really wanted it, but was cut off by the arrival of Alfred.

The teen flung the doors open rather dramatically. Saying he walked in wasn't being entirely truthful. He swaggered in. It made Peter sure at this point, that he didn't want to take Alfred out in public again. Ever.

"Howdy!" He greeted, waving even though he was only a few feet away. Peter found himself half waving back from reflex, but hastily shoved his hand down. He caught Neal smothering a grin as he moved to welcome Alfred.

"Hello again Alfred." He said as he stuck a hand out to shake. The teen gave him a megawatt smile as he slapped the proffered hand and followed with a fist-bump.

"Gotta explode it dude." He said looking at Neal expectantly, whom was staring at the teen with an almost stunned silence. Alfred took Neal's hand and curled it into a fist. He then proceeded to bump it again; except he splayed his fingers out as he drew back giving the poor appearance his fist was exploding.

"Pssssshhhheeeewwww!" He exclaimed making his own sound effects. Neal whipped around when he heard giggling and saw that Amanda, the secretary, was watching and laughing. He noticed several others who averted their eyes as he scanned the room; they were unable to keep the amused smiles off their faces.

"Alfred, please. Never do that again." He begged as Alfred turned to him with a confused face.

"Huh? Why not?"

"Just . . . . Don't."

"Do it every time you see Neal; especially if we're in public." Peter said seriously, turning to the mirthful teen.

"Peter! Don't encourage him."

"Mr. Jones." The bodyguard called, surprising the two as they somehow didn't notice the six foot tall goliath. Alfred _did_ practically demand all the attention in the room just by greeting the two.

The bodyguard was against the wall, scanning the room in true bodyguard style for any suspicious behavior. He tapped his watch towards the teen, reminding Alfred they needed to get a move on.

"Oh, right, what are we doing sitting here wasting time? We gots ta get goin!'" He exclaimed turning on his heel and walking right out the door.

"We were waiting for forty-five minutes and suddenly we're the ones wasting time?" Neal muttered before following the teen.

Alfred took the courtesy of hailing a cab. The driver's sign showed that he was off the clock, but for whatever reason he pulled over to the curb and hastily jumped out to load the bags in the trunk.

"No, no man. It's fine. Me and Alex got this." Alfred smiled as he shooed the old cabbie out of the heat and back into the air conditioned cab.

"Alex and I." Peter corrected automatically making Alfred shudder. The fed looked at him curiously.

"Something the matter Alfred?"

"I do believe you reminded him of his care-taker, Arthur." Alex informed them, eyes shining with hidden mirth.

"Big on grammar, was he?" Neal asked amusedly as Alfred whipped his head around.

"Like you wouldn't believe! He can't operate without it. He stopped using it for a period and he was like a totally different person." Alfred shuddered once more.

"It was really freaky! He had so many freakin' piercings he looked like a pin cushion."

'_This was supposedly his guardian?'_ Neal and Peter exchanged looks. That might explain why Alfred was so . . . Alfred. Suddenly he bent over and began laughing loudly, startling several passerbies as well as the other three men.

"Haha, you shoulda seen his hair. He dyed it green! Then after he stopped being all rebels and sexy pistols, he couldn't get the dye out of his hair! Oh the look on his boss's face when he showed up with green hair to the business meeting, ahh I wish I had a camera then! He seriously looked like a pineapple or maybe even a palm tree or maybe-" People were flat out staring as Alfred waved his arms about trying to describe his guardian's ridiculous hair.

"Calm down sir, you're making a scene!" The body-guard bequeathed, hurriedly ushering the teen into the taxi. This was the worst kind of situation. Large crowds and stupid citizens; God knows what could happen. He stopped and snapped at Peter.

"Get on his other side in the taxi." He ordered and continued when he noticed the fed wasn't really moving.

"That way if there's an accident at least one of us will be on each side. Perhaps we can absorb some of the impact." Alex knew how important it was to avoid any harm to Alfred, but Peter, he snapped up with a queasy look on his face. It was almost incredulous. What kind of request was that?

'Be a dear and sit on the other side of him so you can cushion him in case a few thousand pounds of rolling metal crash into the side. Cool? Cool.' He paused. Looking into the man's dark eyes he knew this was not a request. Peter sucked in a calming breath.

This was a mission, and should be handled professionally. Just treat it like protocol. Nothing special about this. It was only standard protocol. (Though he really didn't think it was.) Besides, Alex was probably just being overly cautious. Hopefully and probably were synonymous in this case. But he really didn't need to be thinking that.

"Scoot over kid." Peter poked his head in the other door as he dodged a car that passed by a little too close. Shouts followed but Peter paid no mind; this was a daily occurrence. Alfred wiggled to the center, and it became painfully clear to Peter that things would be cramped with too more, full-grown men to squeeze in.

Alex was looking impatiently at Neal who was looking both horrified and nauseous at what the tall man had said.

"Peter I don't believe I agreed to this. Isn't there some kind of waiver that I would have to hace signed to make sure no one gets sued? You know, in case I die?" He asked, tacking on the sarcasm to the end.

"Ha, good luck suing the government Neal. You'll need more than Mozzie and an open window to pull that one off." Peter replied smirking as he referred to their last debacle in the judge's chambers.

"Things worked out pretty well last time, don't you think?"

"That's true, but either way, I'm pretty sure you are official property of The United States government, Neal. So don't worry your pretty little head about a thing; I'm sure they took the liberty of signing for you." Neal wilted but reluctantly got into the car followed by Alex. No one was quite sure how the door shut.

There was a series of struggling as they all began to squirm, trying to find some undiscovered inch of space. They pushed against each other seeing who would be willing to give the space, and snatching it as the other faltered. The uncomfortable plastic seats made squeaks as they pushed and shoved each other awkwardly. Plus there was a pervading smell of seven day old coffee mixed with the odd aroma of cat piss. Neal wasn't sure how it was possible, but he felt even sicker than before.

"Egh this is not working." Peter snapped after a few painful minutes of this. The cabman just watched them with muted amusement.

"Jesus, Alfred just get in somebody's lap!" Neal muscled out, his tone muffled as he was pushed against the hulking bodyguard. Said bodyguard snapped around, and Neal thought he almost caught a light blush sneaking onto his face.

"Excuse me! Don't speak to Mr. Jones like that! He-"

"Haha that's what Francis is always saying!" Alfred laughed as the Latino mans words died in his mouth. He began again with a tone of exasperation and disgust.

"Sir, I think you've been hanging out with _that man _too much for your own good. It's beginning to rub off." The words, 'that man' belayed all the dislike that the bodyguards training kept him from showing on his face. Alfred squeezed out of the middle, and lay sprawling on top of all three of them as he turned to Alex with a grin at his look of discomfort. The other two let out sighs of relief at the lack of pressure.

"Oh whatevs. Francis is like my homie now! We get along almost as well as me and Iggy do." Alfred said waiving off the bodyguards words, Alex looked like he was going to say something more, but Alfred cut him off in a much quieter tone.

"Besides, you can never have too many friends, ya know?" Alex looked at the young country unhappily. He took note of the well-hidden gleam of loneliness concealed behind the easy-going smile. Being the world's superpower had its costs. Bridges burned and friendships lost.

Alex just shook his head to remove the morose thoughts.

"In any case, Mr. Jones cannot be the one to sit on somebody's lap. That would be too dangerous."

"I agree." Peter said nodding slowly.

"Neal get on Alex's lap." He ordered.

"What? Peter, no!" Neal rejected the idea hastily, looking at the enormous bodyguard with horror.

"Just do it."

"He's lots nicer than he looks, I'm sure he won't bite." Alfred supplied unhelpfully with a smile.

"No way."

"You're the smallest next to Alfred. Besides this was kind of your idea." Peter said as Neal shot a burning gaze his way.

"For Alfred to do it! Plus I'm only shorter than you by a few inches!" He protested. None of the men in the car would be considered small or short by and standard. Just when they compared to Alex. The bodyguard was bristling again with Neal's suggestion.

"It's too dangerous for Mr-"

"Yeah, yeah we hear you." Peter spoke, dismissing the words irritably.

"Look, if it's not this, you get to be smashed into the side by whichever car careens this way. Plus you and Alex would be just as close jammed to each other's side if we try to drive the whole way like before." Peter explained.

"Plus it would be dangerous to continue on like that." Alex contributed but inwardly quailed at the dual glares. Not that he let it show.

"On Alex."

Neal frowned. He really didn't need for a repeat of the last conversation. The futility of it was making him feel depressed. Stupid feds. Ganging up on him like that.

"Fine." He muttered petulantly.

"Okay Alfred, back in the middle." Peter guided as the teen tried to maneuver himself back into a seat. Peter let out a grunt as Alfred's foot managed to stab him in the eye.

"Oops, sorry."

"It's fine." He grunted.

Then they hard Alex suck in a harsh breath.

"Ack! Sorry Alex."

"It's fine sir, just move." Alfred removed his elbow from the guard's nether regions.

The control of the secret service was both frightening and awe-inspiring. Neal felt sincere sympathy for the guy, because this was apparently what he did for a _living._ Yikes. Talk about masochism.

With all of them arranged, Neal sitting stiffly on the guards knees, Peter rapped off the address and they finally drove away from the building.

* * *

><p>After a much too long thirty minute drive, an awkward stoplight involving beautiful babes and un-tinted windows, plus another lecture from Alex, regarding how dangerous the situation was, they arrived at the residence.<p>

They spilled out onto the curb. Peter and Neal sucking in breaths like air was a vanishing commodity.

"Never again!" Peter promised gulping the fresh, cat-piss-free, air. Neal nodded vehemently in agreement.

Alfred seemed pretty calm about the whole thing and he stepped around to the cabbie's side while Alex got the bags.

"Hey, keep the change." Alfred smiled as the old man's eyes widened.

"No sir, this is far too much." Peter peered around from where he was on the grass. He jolted up as he saw the Benjamin Franklin. Motioning for the teen to come over, Alfred came with a confused face.

"Alfred, are you tipping our cab driver seventy plus dollars?" The teen just shrugged.

"Yeah, why?"

"Doesn't that seem a little . . . much?" Like seriously.

"Not really. He's got a family. Four grandchildren in fact, he's helping save up money for their collage funds. Plus his wife, Karen, died seven months ago. He's still paying for all the funeral costs. " Alfred frowned before continuing.

"Holes in the ground are a lot more expensive than they used to be, ya know."

"That's too bad, poor guy, how is he fee- Wait, did you just make all that up to make me feel bad!" Peter accused, snapping from sympathetic to angry in a matter of seconds.

Alfred had forgotten that no one else could hear those things besides countries. When Alfred looked at George, it practically screamed 'Four Grandkids, dead wife and debt.' How people failed to see it was beyond him.

It was such an integral part of his life; he couldn't imagine how it would be without it. Well, he could imagine, and he imagined it to be very difficult. Not to mention annoying. And stupid.

"Didn't you hear him talking? No I suppose you were busy watching Alex manhandle Neal." He watched calmly as Peter spluttered. If politics had taught him anything, it was this; 'The best defense is a good offence', and 'Admit nothing!'

He paused to consider how crazy some of his politicians were. It was a good thing that they were made of America-y goodness to make up for the crazy. Else the nation would be at the mercy of total psychopaths. Again.

Ignoring Peter's blushing protests he continued to hand the old man the money.

"Take care of yourself George."

"Y-you too, sir!" George gave Alfred a nearly toothless smile, and Alfred knew it was worth more than the money.

Sure Alfred was supposed to be cutting any miscellaneous spending, but this was kind of like giving money right back to the people. Recirculation, in fact. It would balance itself out eventually. Probably anyways.

"Sir, I do wish you would stop doing that." Alex grumbled as he pulled Alfred's bags around to the house.

"If you continue to wave money around like that something's bound to happen. It's-"

" Dangerous. I know." Alfred commented unconcernedly. He would almost be charmed by how much Alex cared, if he wasn't busy being so irritated. People now-and-days never wanted him to do anything fun.

'Alfred!' They would cry.

'Don't go wave-boarding Alfred; there are sharks in the water.' Pfft Like he couldn't take on a shark. Anyone who watched "Jaws" could do it. Even children, especially if they were as awesome as he was when he was a kid.

'Stop driving on the right side of the road in Europe Alfred; you're gonna get hit by a car.' Psshaw like he couldn't beat-up a car. "Christine" was another great example how all of life's questions could be answered through the movies.

'Don't climb Mount Everest Alfred; it puts you in Chinese airspace and they're really angry with us.' . . . That one he didn't have an answer for yet, but hope springs eternal, and he was looking forward to this year's movie line-up.

"-ey Alfred?"

"Wuh?" He noticed Neal snapping his fingers in front of his face.

"You still with us?" Peter asked.

"Huh? Of yeah, you bet."He said shaking his awesome thoughts from his head.

"I have a flight to catch in a little bit so I'm going to have to make this sweep a quick one." Alex remarked unhappily.

"How terrible." Neal mocked sarcastically. He wasn't normally this short, but if Mozzie found put there was a fed in the house, most especially one from the secret service, he would probably foam at the mouth and have a major stroke or aneurysm. Then came the after-effects. (That was, if he survived, which knowing the shorter man's luck, was a definite probability.)

God knew how many months it would take him to come back to the house of his own free will. He would constantly be suggesting some shady rape-alley as an alternative to a nice and cozy night by the fireplace when discussing the niceties of life; you know, wine, food, movies, good places to steal from.

It had happened before. Several times in fact.

Neal wasn't going back to the rape-alley. Not this time.

"Try to make it fast." He was edgy as he unlocked the door and led them up to his loft. He made a bee-line for the only door. Alex only raised an eye-brow before following.

"This can be Alfred's room. The maid usually comes by every other day to check on stuff but she's on vacation for now." Neal explained while trying not to look like he was staring at Alex who was inspecting the room with a fine-tooth comb. He turned over the cushions and threw back the drapes dramatically, as though he was expecting ninjas to be behind them. Alfred paid him no mind, as though this was a daily occurrence. Seeing how little he knew about the teen, it just might have been.

The room was moderately sized, with neutral colored walls and a navy blue comforter. This was supposed to be Neal's room, but he much preferred the openness the loft offered, so he really only used this for storage of his big dusty technical books on the mechanics of painting and art. There were a few old easel's leaning against the wall in the corner and Neal moved to take them back into the living room.

When he got back it seemed that Alfred had taken it upon himself to start unpacking. One of his white duffel bags had spilled open to reveal books. Mountains upon mountains of books.

"Geez Alfred, you trying to start a library or something." Neal asked staring at the plethora of multi-colored covers that now swallowed the beige carpet.

"You always bring this much reading with you?" Peter asked, kneeling down to thumb through some of the collection.

'_Had the kid just taken every book in his house?_' Peter wondered as he came up with a copy of both "Moby Dick" and "The Cat in the Hat" in one pull.

"Not always, but I've got to make up for-"

"Please don't get him started on that nonsense again." Alex asked glancing back at them as he raided the closet. The teen puffed his cheeks out and pouted at the guard.

"Started on what nonsense?" Peter wondered aloud and Alfred's eyes shined as Alex rolled his.

"You see, Arthur gave me the Harry Potter books to read, and I sorta kind of promised him I'd read 'em. But that didn't seem very fair to all my awesome American Novels to be reading some British books instead of them."

"Uhhm?"

"I know right? Not fair at all! So I devised this awesome plan to make sure that my American novels don't get irrationally jealous; I'll read one American book to make up for each British chapter I read." Silence met his pleased announcement.

"Alfred, I don't think that's how books work. . . At all." Peter said rubbing his forehead.

"It's not?" Genuine curiosity.

"No. Just . . . no Alfred."

"Ah, another non-believer." He shook his head sadly. Neal just laughed at Peter's frustrated expression.

"Sir I'm afraid I really must be going now." Alex announced reluctantly, being unable to find anything suspicious in the house.

"Is it that time already?" Alfred had become pretty fond of the secret service bodyguard. Despite all his worrying.

"Please take care of yourself sir." The bodyguard pleaded and Alfred gave him a warm smile.

"Don't worry so much Alex. You'll give yourself wrinkles. What kind of trouble can I get in New York?" The guard bristled a little at this, but Alfred didn't give him time to respond.

"Besides, I've taken care of myself for years without anyone watching out for me, I'm pretty strong you know." He flexed his arm in a show and the guard let out a soft chuckle.

"I know sir, I know."

"Be sure to drop by sometime if you're ever in New York!" Alfred jumped up and encompassed the bodyguard in a hug.

Alex's eyes widened at both surprise and at the feelings that coursed through his veins. Alfred had somehow managed to drape himself across the larger man and he couldn't help but feel totally surrounded by the country. It was a feeling he couldn't describe.

The running river waters and the dense pine forests, the feeling of the crinkled parchment of the declaration, the light of an entire nation living and dying in the pursuit of happiness, The taste liberty and the bitter-sweet sugar of her fruit the like a rolling wave, he heard the voices of people, both living and dead. Some more familiar than others.

"_I had a dream-_"

"_There's not an American in this country free until every one of us_-"

"_-eedom to be stupid, freedom to fail, freedom to succe-__"_

"_Life, Liberty and the Pursuit-"_

"_The pursuit of-"_

"_The Pursuit of Happ-"_

Just as he felt he was on the precipice of understanding, Alfred drew back and graced him with a smile. Air flew back into his lungs but he waivered there, still grasping at the faint tendrils of the experience.

The walls of the room settled down and he remembered where he was. He glanced at the country below him. Trying with his eyes to tell him all the things his lips couldn't

"_You are so amazing."_ Alfred's smile grew blinding.

Neal and Peter watched the exchange curiously. Had something passed between the two of them that they had missed. The way Alex was looking at Alfred bordered on adoration and it was sort of unnerving to watch. Finally sensing their glares, Alex jumped and coughed awkwardly.

"Yes, well I suppose I really had best be leaving now. See me out would you?" It wasn't really a question as he gestured to Neal whom followed reluctantly behind him.

"Bye Alex!" Alfred called once more as they left Peter and the teen to unpack.

"See you Alfred." The guard called over his shoulder. The short walk down to the entrance room was quiet, borderline awkward Neal would say.

"Umm thanks for coming by." Neal said for lack of anything better to say.

"I know your kind, Mr. Caffery." Alex began, his voice low and intimidating.

"And what kind is that?" The ex-con responded coolly.

"Don't bull-shit with me. I've read your file, and I know what to expect." Neal opened his mouth, but the guard swiftly cut him off.

"If you place Mr. Jones in any form of danger, if you intend any harm towards him and if you even think about stealing a single dust-speck from him, be prepared to answer to the entire U.S government." He moved closer in, his breath ghosting against Neal's ears like the gossamer threads of a spider web. The spider web of a particularly dangerous spider.

"Plus what I might do if I find out. Accidents happen." Neal shuddered, but tried to keep his face smooth.

"Not even your partner could save you then." He drew back and stepped from the house without another word.

Neal mutely closed the door behind him, and sunk against the wall onto the shinning marble of the entrance room. He clasped his hands trying to stop the faint trembles that wracked them. The look in the goliath's eyes was so sharp with the promise of retribution. It was frightening. Not that he would ever admit it.

He took his time climbing back up the stairs. Trying to get his thoughts in order. When he entered, Alfred stopped mid-sentence in a conversation with Peter, and turned his unrelenting gaze on Neal. His expression faded from contentment to frustration mixed with guilt.

"He threatened you?" It wasn't really a question, so much as a statement of fact.

"Neal? Did he really? He didn't hurt you did he?" Peter asked concernedly, scanning for any signs of a physical threat. He came over and patted the dust off of Neal's suit in a mothering way that almost brought a smile to Neal's face.

"No he didn't touch me." He remembered the cool breath on his ear and repressed a shiver.

"We just talked."

"They always do this." Alfred muttered to himself before let out a long suffered sigh. Neal caught it and raised a brow.

'_Who did?'_

"I'm sorry about that Neal. He shouldn't have threatened you."

His people always felt the need to protect him once they found out who he was. They didn't seem to understand that it was them that needed the protecting.

"It's okay." Neal shrugged. "I'm more or less used to it. You would be surprised how few people trust criminals now and days. It's a real dilemma." He said it in a sarcastic way and was rewarded with a small smile from the teen, though the guilt was still prevalent. He didn't want Alfred to feel responsible for Alex's behavior.

"No seriously though, don't worry about it." Neal assured and Alfred nodded slowly.

"Seriously. This happens so much in our line of work, that it just wouldn't be the same without it." Peter remarked dryly and Neal chuckled in agreement.

It was just a day in the life. Neal paused as he looked at the two before him.

And tomorrow it would be a day in the life, with Alfred.

He had mixed feelings about that.

* * *

><p>Hey! I hope it wasn't too boring! (I know that not much happened, but this is really going to be a long one guys.)<p>

Yes I did bring PunkArthur into this. His appearance was based on the picture "Counter Culture" (Which I totally do not own.

Yes There will be other Hetalia characters in this.

Yes Mozzie makes an appearance next time. (Maybe/hopefully)

As a matter of fact, America and France are closer than ever now and days. Google it.

Ah, one last thought.

Anyone know a good title for the story?

**REVIEW PLEASE!**


	3. A Day for Pancakes & Math

This is absolutely unheard of for me. Updating so much, that is. Especially since this is my longest chapter to date, though I hope to push it to longer eventually.

A few notes.

Thanks to all the reviewers! You reviews made me so excited and happy. The reason this is out so relatively early is because of the reviews. (Earth Coyote, my finger is itching because I can't respond to your message!)

This is, again, un-Beta'd. Sorry about that. No one has contacted me in a long while. Any Volunteers?

Third. It snowed yesterday in Utah. Yeah, early October. Oh and also my birthday was a few days ago, now I can drive!

**This story does contain angst. **I try to keep it to a minimum, but I find it helpful in showing the characters off. Sorry if it is a bummer. If it ever becomes too much, **leave a review and I'll work on it.** It gets funny and light-hearted near the end so . . .

There is a part on a phone, that I hope everyone can tell apart from normal speech. Also, the idea with the pancakes may seem awkward but it is supposed to show how even the menial things aren't the same.

I wonder if anyone will catch the irony of me quoting Isadora Duncan for my story. :}

Song that I listened to one repeat was "Kiss with a Fist" and "Illusion" both the property of Florence and the Machine, and VNV Nation.

**I own nothing. Not even the guy from James Bond.**

* * *

><p>Chapter Three: A Day in which Pancakes and Mathematics Walk Hand in Hand.<p>

_"The real American type can never be a ballet dancer. The legs are too long, the body too supple and the spirit too free for this school of affected grace and toe walking." ~Isadora Duncan_

* * *

><p>It was golden, streaming, light which pierced the veil of Alfred's dreams early that summer day. He opened his eyes slowly and squinted at the obnoxious beams which were pouring from the window. The passing thought, about how he was certain that he had asked Julianne to keep the curtains closed; had no time to take root in his mind, for his eyes were already shut and his mind seeking refuge away from the light and into his dreams.<p>

The radiance was persistent. He grumbled. Far too comfortable to actually leave the bed and shut the drapes, he wasn't yet beyond wiggling away from the light. His lethargic appendages weren't cooperating very well. The weight of a few hundred years made his limbs feel more like lead. He didn't want to imagine how China felt when he woke up in the morning.

'_Probably like a wad of concrete gum.'_ He gave pause.

'_That would be awfully hard to chew_.'

'_Unless he was like that one guy from James Bond with those teeth.'_

'_I wonder what kind of toothpaste he uses.'_

'_Does he even get cavities?'_

'_That would mean he would have like a dentist or something.'_

'_Or would it be an orthodontist?'_

'_Maybe just a welder.'_

'_Ow that would hurt.' _He began humming the dentist song from Little Shop of Horrors in his mind.

In the morning his mind was more like a field of kites, all let loose at the same time. All tails crossing and intertwining; and his thoughts were jumping from one tail end to another, forming no cohesive train of thought.

Though he had escaped the light, and felt mutely victorious, the sheets had bunched up underneath him and he flipped over to remove them. He couldn't help but be surprised when he flipped right out of the bed.

"Ouch!" His painful exclamation was muffled due to the fact his face was planted in the scratchy carpet. The sheets were tangled around his legs awkwardly and kept them still partway on the bed. This left his head and torso to have a full on confrontation with the carpet. The carpet had won if anyone had cared to watch.

He undid the sheets and rolled onto his knees, grasping his head between his arms as though that would help the throbbing. A few pained hisses escaped his lips as he cradled. He felt irritated with not only the bed, but with himself. There would be a string of headaches across the country and it would be entirely his fault for being so clumsy. Quickly checking to make sure he didn't have a bloody nose, he dragged himself off the ground and glared, albeit blurrily, at the carpet.

'_Idiot.' _ He certainly felt like banging his head against the floor a few more times, despite the fact it would only make things worse.

Groaning and rubbing he turned towards the fuzzy shape of the bed with an acute glare. It wasn't _all his_ fault. He really _had_ thought the bed was a longer. Alfred grumbled a little and pulled Texas off of its resting place by his pillow. As the world once more was defined by sharp lines, two things became abundantly clear;

The first was that his bed was definitely smaller than he remembered. About three sizes smaller to be precise. That was definitely odd, but it didn't hold his attentions for long as he noticed to his horror, the missing article from his bed.

For some ungodly reason, his bitchin' red and blue Superman comforter was MIA.

Not even Prussia would do something as profane as stealing that. And the Albino had pranked him with a _blowtorch_ before.

Twice.

He stared at the navy in total repulsion. Glancing about the room for some clue as to where it had gone it suddenly hit him like a ton of bricks when his eyes stumbled upon a biography of Francisco de Goya and Neal re-entered his thoughts. Yesterday's events slowly filtered back into his mind.

'_Oh yeah. They sent me away to be "protected."'_ That would explain the lack of Superman in his awesome awakening. Also the disconcerting fact that the ground he fell on was so eerily clean.

Letting out a sigh he lifted his fingers towards the ceiling, trying to loosen a few of the tense muscles. That plate that was scraping across California was really knotting up his back. He truly just wanted it to submerge already. After a few moments he switched to his shoulders and pulled his left arm far to the side of his head.

He supposed that "they" (whoever's lame idea this was) had lacked the foresight to notice the fact he was staying with an international art thief. Reformed or not, someone really should have said something about that. Something along the lines of,

"_Hey didn't that one guy steal some stuff and like go to jail or something?"_

-would have worked. Not that he really cared where he was, but he felt a little miffed at the blatant oversight. What if Neal was an actual bad guy like some mass-murderer/rapist/non-tax-payer? They would have never known the difference!

Alfred knew that none of "them" actually knew where exactly he would be going. That was more or less the idea of being hidden away.

He scoffed at the thought; being hidden away like an object, the sheer ridiculousness of it.

Feeling much more relaxed he swung his arms down and left his temporary living quarters in search of something more entertaining than the dull walls. Perhaps he could even find something to eat for breakfast.

He had a flickering thought about how he wondered where Neal was sleeping. So far, he had only seen one bed-room on this floor and he hoped he hadn't kicked his new host out of it. The thought hadn't the time to settle because the slight motion in the corner drew his eyes to a large bed tucked into an alcove. The light murmurs that floated across the room and the occasional ruffle of the pristine sheets were enough to satisfy Alfred's curiosity, and he crept quietly on sock-clad feet to the kitchen.

Alfred was surprised when he saw such a well functioning kitchen last night when Neal fixed dinner for the two of them. From what he understood, and what he had "heard" through the link of people and country, was that Neal was currently and painfully single. His last serious relationship had ended in a plane explosion. Yeesh.

Alfred felt for the guy. The least he could do was make a nice breakfast for him, to show how grateful he was for letting him stay here.

He was again, delightedly surprised, when as he opened the cupboards he found them well stocked with rather high–quality ingredients that would make Austria cringe at the excess expenditure.

Nothing like what he would usually expect from the majority of the bachelors in his country. (Not to say that Alfred was any better. But that was admitted grudgingly, with several "but "and "except" statements to follow.) Seriously, he loved all of his people, and if they chose to kick it with their ramen and frozen foods, that was fine with him. Just as long as he didn't have to eat with them long term.

But Neal wasn't like "most bachelors" and the very thought of Neal standing in the fluorescently lit grocery isle, scanning the row for which brand of hot-pockets he wanted, was enough to send Alfred into hysterics. He muffled the bursting laughter with his hand and was pleased of the continual sounds of soft snores that met his ears.

No, Neal had more refined taste and Alfred was just as chill with that.

Snapping back to the task at hand, he went over to the cupboards and began searching for ingredients he could use to make something. Tuna, cheese, some vegetables, fruit, pasta, cheese, wheat-bread, soup base, cheese, wine and even more cheese.

Alfred noted that Neal had a strong liking for cheeses and fine wines, and felt sure that he and France would get along swimmingly. He paused along the collection that sat glistening on a wine-rack and frowned at the apparent lack of Californian wines. Alfred always had a preference for those than to the French sort; no matter what France said.

Staring morosely at the lack of eggs and bacon, it seemed the hope of homemade McMuffins was quickly fading. He could always go out and buy some, but it would be so much more personal to make one. He momentarily debated the pros and cons of buying one and making one, when a stray thought pushed its way to the forefront of his mind.

He had to physically stop. His arms were shaking a little with indecision.

Within his heart, he knew, to his total and complete horror, the fact that Neal would hate McDonalds for breakfast.

'_Surely he wouldn't mind that much.' _He winced at the now overbearing knowledge that yes, yes he would mind that much; if not more.

It was as tough for him to acknowledge as it was for him to grudgingly shift his breakfast plans to something else. He would have time enough to turn Neal onto the light side. And he would. Kicking and screaming if necessary.

For now he was back at square one, and was perusing through the cabinets once more. His finger scarped the plastic face of the maple syrup woman. Thoughts of his brother welled up, and he smiled. They wouldn't taste as good as Mattie's, but pancakes would make a great breakfast.

He went about pulling the materials for his new venture, and was pleased when they were all present and accounted for. He picked out some vanilla extract and blueberries just for flavoring.

"A little sugar never hurt anyone, so what the hell!" The jar of sugar joined in the growing pile.

He flashed the maple bottle a thumbs up for its help and was certain that his brother felt his gratitude wherever he was right now. Canada was probably a safe bet.

While having a glaring contest with the all-purpose flour and the baking flour, trying to discern a difference between the two, he was startled the abrupt ringing of the phone

He scrambled to answer it, unable to keep a smile from his face at the ringtone.

"Hey Igg-i-licious, what's up?"

* * *

><p>The grey shadows mocked Neal as they shaped and morphed around him. It failed to form actual, discernable shapes, and instead just flew about him, in bleak little monochrome blobs. Even the color had deserted this place.<p>

Eventually grey blots finally settled and he didn't blink at the familiar setting. For he had been here many times before.

The airplane hangar was practically desolate. Two people stood at the end, their figures practically dots at the distance. He began to walk in a steady pace towards them. Like he always did.

Sometimes he wished he would wake. But the irony of it all overwhelmed him and left a vindictive taste in his mouth. There was no getting away. What he was trying to escape in this world, was reality in the other. A bitter laugh escaped his lips.

Was it twisted to enjoy this? Perhaps it was. The moments before it crashed down he cherished, like a boy who carried around his dead pet cat. Neal couldn't let go. Not now, and maybe, not ever.

Finally he arrived in front of the once distant figures. Peter and Mozzie stared right back at him. Their faces blank, eerily flat for such passionate and emotional people. They wouldn't say anything to him. They never did. They just looked at him with identical un-blinking, colorless gazes. They gestured to the plane. Staring but a moment longer, he then set out to the plane he knew was waiting for him.

A plane that would never leave the ground.

Upon entering, he was assaulted by the sight of Kate. The dark shadows doing nothing to mar her timeless beauty. Her face new face looked right, pale and grey as it was. The colorless landscape now fit his new view of her. She must be so cold where she was. Just as Neal was cold without her.

Without their color, her eyes appeared more like glass. They reflected in their shined irises, the pair's past and their potential, yet unattainable, future. She turned towards him, her motions muted and silent.

It wouldn't be long now. The explosion would come soon and he would watch her be torn apart by the fires, and debris. He hadn't been on the plane at the time, but his mind could imagine and that was enough. Every time what he pictured was a little different. Varying from total disintegration upon impact and a slow burning that reached to her bones and took what seemed hours to engulf her entirely.

He would watch and he would mourn. He would mourn for the memories. He would mourn for all the conversations they would never have. He would mourn for her seven freckles on her left arm. He would mourn for her sparkling laughter. He would mourn for the bottle that would be forever empty. He mourned for her smile. He would mourn for Kate.

He had long since lost count of the number of times he had had this dream. Not that it mattered. Very little changed, usually only her demise. That was why Neal was so entirely shocked when her delicate grey mouth opened.

What was happening, he didn't know, but he stared at the offending opening with anticipation, fear and joy. What was changing?

"**YOU ARE A PIRATE!"****  
><strong>The sound jolted him terribly, his mind unable to compute the jingle that was unmistakably pouring from her porcelain mouth.

The world of shadows began to melt away and was replaced once more with a world of color. A world so beautiful, and yet it was without Kate. His eyes snapped open, and the white ceiling met his gaze.

"**Yar har, fiddle di dee,****  
><strong>**Being a pirate is alright to be,****  
><strong>**Do what you want cause a pirate is free,****  
><strong>**You are a pir-**"

"Hey Igg-i-licious, what's up?" Neal spun his head towards the sound, disorienting himself with the quick movement. While he tried to steady himself, his brain was grappling, trying to understand the bizarre sentence. It was Alfred, he recognized. Whom was he speaking to? He didn't think it was himself, and he hoped the boy wasn't speaking to nobody. Alfred worried him enough without the 'talking-to-voices-that-weren't-there.'

"What's wrong with Igg-i-licious?"

Neal pulled the covers back and moved with sluggish steps over towards the kitchen where he noted Alfred mixing some large batter in a bowl with one hand, and chatting amiably on a phone in his other hand.

"You'll never be pleased with any of my nick-names. Even my awesome one for what your stripper name would be-" The teen jerked his arm back hastily, almost dropping the batter bowl in the process, as shouting spilled from the phone. While Alfred held the cellular out to the side, waiting for the ranting to stop, he finally noticed Neal's presence.

"Oops, sorry, I didn't mean to wake you." He apologized whispering so the other voice on the line wouldn't hear him.

"Its fine, it was about time that I got up anyways." Neal replied, just as quietly. "What's cooking?" He looked pointedly at the batter bowl.

"Blueberry pancakes."

"Sounds good."

"Yeah, they are. If you want really good pancakes you should taste the ones my brother makes. He's so good at cooking . It makes me wonder what ingredients he puts in 'em. Sometimes afterwards I see the craziest shi-"

Just then the voice on the phone stopped shouting and he could make out the slight tone of a question. Alfred once again turned his attentions back to the phone, holding a finger up to Neal to show he wasn't ignoring him.

Neal motioned for him to go right ahead.

"Yeah, yeah, I'm still here." A roll of the eyes.

"Of course I was listening."

"Well first you called me a git, then you spluttered and said how inappropriate it was for me to think of what your stripper-name would be, then said you wondered how I turned into such a little monster when I was such a cute child, and then you said my English was trash-"

"Oh, _rubbish _my bad. Why can't you just call it trash like a normal person" More shouting followed and Alfred held the phone away from himself pointedly as he began to pour the batter into a skillet he had produced from the over-hanging rack.

"Why did you call anyways?" He asked once the shouting had begun to taper a bit.

"Yes I had a nice flight."

"Wha- No I didn't terrorize the person sitting next to me!"

"That was _one_ time and that's only because Gil-"

"So what if it was my firecracker?"

"Like it was any worse than the time you told everyone a fairy was attacking the plane?" Alfred uttered an obnoxious laugh and Neal had to smile.

"Well duh. He's Francis; of course he's going to spike your drink with something stronger."He flipped the pancake lazily, and Neal decided to fix himself some coffee while pondering Alfred's strange acquaintances.

"I don't think it was _that_ big of a deal, though you did get all weepy and speak that weird cockney shit."

"You do so complain and that doesn't mean much when you're always saying I don't speak proper English."

"Whatever, my slang is awesome."

"Your just jeal- What? Yeah the people I'm staying with are really nice."

"I'm not bothering them too much."

"Yeah he would say so too. He's a real special artist, very well known, you might even know him. " Alfred flashed Neal a wink and Neal gave him an amused grin at being a 'real special artist' as he sipped his beverage.

"Not telling~"

Yes it would be unwise to tell England that he was staying with an art thief who may or may not have stolen multiple British artifacts at several points in time. Not wise in the slightest.

"Nope, you can't make me reveal his secret identity."

"Don't sweat the small stuff Iggy."

"No I don't know whose stupid idea this was to send me away." A little chuckle followed.

"Yeah me too." There was a pause in the conversation and Neal felt the mood shift.

"So about that eight meeting-"

"Yes I am coming. They can't even try to keep me away."

"Who's hosting it?"

"Oh great! It's been a while since it's been at Mattie's house. When is it? "

"Uh-huh." The teen nodded his head; even though there was no way that whomever he was talking to could see it.

"That's still pretty far away."

"Yeah yeah, I won't tell Gilbert where it is."

"I said I wouldn't this time!"

"Geez, let's have a little faith, shall we?"

"I'm not a git you crotchety old man."Alfred was laughing too hard at his friend's reaction to notice the dark plumes that were circling from the pan.

"Umm Alfred." Neal pointed to the pan and Alfred quickly swore.

"Shit! Sorry Arthur, I gotta go; your bad cooking skills came over the phone lines." Without any more of an explanation, he hung up on the heated protests echoing from the phone.

"Shit! " He quickly flipped the pancake over to the other side to reveal the blackened bottom. Staring at it solemnly, he turned to Neal with a serious look.

"This one can be mine, okay?" There was an odd tone of,

'Don't be alarmed; I won't shaft you with the crappy pancakes,'

-that made the art thief smile.

"It's fine." He assured and Alfred proceeded to pour another pancake with a flourishing motion. The burnt one lay on a forest green ceramic, the blackened edges just peeking from underneath,

"So did you have an alright night? Everything comfortable? I know that mattress is kind of hard." Neal asked, making small talk.

"Oh everything's great, though I did have a run in with the carpet when I fell out of the bed this morning." He muttered with a slight pout.

Somehow, that didn't surprise Neal as much as it should have.

"Yeah, watch that first step, it's a doozy." The teen graced him with a slight glare, though his eyes didn't follow through, remaining the bright and cheerful kind that Neal was beginning to know his new tenant for.

"So was that your brother just now on the phone?" He inquired while watching Alfred eat a stray blueberry that had escaped the strainer.

"Naw that was just Arthur."

"Oh, I thought Arthur was one of your brothers along with the other one. Uhm, ehat's his name?" Neal felt a little frustrated, because he was usually so good with names. Alfred started laughing.

"No one seems to be able to keep Mattie's name straight." A few more stray chuckles escaped as he calmed down.

"It's probably because we look so alike. People think that I'm him, and that he's me. About Arthur, he's close enough to be my brother, and he kind of raised me and all. I don't really know what I would call our relationship other than special." They were more like equals these days, but the implications of what that truly meant would, no doubt, escape the human.

"I see. So you're close to them then?"

"Oh yeah, real close." There was a pleasant little pause as Alfred flipped the new pancake with precision. The polite thing to do would be to ask Neal about his own family, though Alfred knew this to be a sure way to ruin the morning. Not that his true past with his own family was as peachy as he made it seem, but Neal didn't have the years Alfred had to come to terms with his own. Neal's past was filled with hurt and Alfred didn't want that.

'_Besides, it was too early for that kind of thing anyways_.'

'_Mornings should be made out of pancakes, blueberries and obnoxious sunlight!"_

Just then, the doorbell rang, and Neal excused himself from the barstool to go answer it. Predictably, it was his partner Peter standing at the grand glass doors. He was dressed in a generic suit, as usual, and it was one Neal had seen many times before. There wasn't a lot a variety in his friend's wardrobe.

"Ah, good morning Peter." He greeted, moving aside for the fed to enter.

"Morning Neal. How did things go with our little charge last night?" He asked right off the bat.

"He was fine. After you left I made some pasta. He did bitch a little about how un-American it was and I had to promise him we could have hamburgers later this week to make up for the pasta I made. I owe him 'America points' in the gospel according to Alfred." Neal rubbed his forehead.

'_This kid certainly was a piece of work.'_ It was considerably worse since he had somehow agreed to Alfred's madness. Apparently he still had five 'America points' to make up within the next few days. He desperately hoped cooking for the teen wouldn't always be this hard.

"That's rich. You serving hamburgers, who would have thought it? Well maybe I'll have to show up for this momentous occasion. Someone's got to be able to witness it."Peter chuckled unsympathetically.

"I don't have a problem with hamburgers they just-"

"Oh please, they're like the anti-Neal." His Partner said flatly. "They're everything you can't stand."

"That's absurd." Neal felt offended at his partners dismissing nature.

"They're messy, low class, food you eat with your fingers, greasy, suit-ruining, sauce-filled-"

"Alright calm down there Peter." Neal said almost amusedly. Though all the things he had said about hamburgers were true. . .

"Hamburgers are just fine with me."

"Right, and I find crying women to be great company." He said sarcastically.

"When is June coming back?" Peter asked, switching the subject easily.

"Sometime within the next month. I'm pretty sure she's watching polo matches right now. She's sponsoring one of the teams apparently so when they get kicked out she can leave."

"I see." Peter seemed to be frowning a little. It was then that Neal noticed the dark blue duffel bag that Peter was half concealing behind his back.

"Peter what is that?" He was pretty sure he already knew.

"Ah, this. They want me to stay with you until June gets back. Just as a precaution."

"Peter, you've got to be kidding me." Neal felt incredulous. After all that he helped them with and this was the thanks he got.

"Don't look at me. I don't have any more of a choice in this than you do." Peter said raising his hands defensively.

Sure. The last time Peter had stayed over, it didn't seem like he would ever want to leave. He probably even volunteered the idea.

"Look at the very least; I'll be able to make dealing with Alfred easier on you." He supplied earnestly.

"I promise I won't take over your apartment like last time." The cheeky jerk! He had even known what he was doing!

"Well it's not like I have a choice." Neal said accepting the deal with bad-grace.

"Great, I'll just crash on the couch like last time then."

"Hnn."

Peter smirked a little but the expression morphed into one of curiosity as he smelled the ting of baked goods from the air.

"You're making breakfast today? Wow, you really must like this kid because when I stayed with you, you never made breakfast." A waft of smoke and burnt food floated down and the fed crinkled his nose.

"Then again, from the burnt smell, maybe you really don't like him at all. Shouldn't you be watching the stove?"

"Alfred's the one cooking." Neal winced when the crashes echoed from the loft.

"Yeah? I can tell how that's going."

"Well, better than when a certain someone set off the fire alarm when trying to make their wife a birthday breakfast." He pointed out innocently; ignoring the glare sent his way.

"Let's go see if the frying pan is launching an assassination attempt." Peter said sarcastically as they ascended the staircase, not giving Neal a response to his last jab. Awaiting the pair at the top was Alfred who was covered in a thin layer of flour and when he opened his mouth Neal just silenced him.

"I think we can figure what happened." He said wearily as Alfred cleaned the white dust from the kitchen.

"Jesus Alfred! How many pancakes did you make?" Peter exclaimed looking at the carefully constructed tower that piled high towards the ceiling.

"I think it's tilting. . . ." Neal trailed worriedly. His kitchen had been through enough abuse today.

"Nah, don't worry, it's not gonna fall. I calculated the center of gravity and maximized the area for evenly dispersing the weight without it buckling anywhere." He raised a scratch sheet of loose-leaf showing his equations.

Like hell anything he constructed would fall. He wasn't England, whom couldn't seem to keep that damn bridge from falling down all the time. His statement was met with blinking and incredulous looks.

"Right . . . well my question is how are we supposed to serve them without knocking them over?" Peter raised a brow.

"My question is how you managed to stack them that high to begin with." Neal put forth.

"Oh, I just pull-" He stopped. If he was right, then humans couldn't pull refrigerators and drag dresser's over just to stack a ridiculous, (an unnecessarily necessary kind of ridiculous,) pile of pancakes. He thought so at least. It was hard remembering how strong humans were when lifting a car was no different than lifting a pencil to you.

"I threw them." He answered at last. 'Admit Nothing!' was bouncing around his head like a mantra. They seemed to be waiting for him to say more so he turned his gaze to the suddenly fascinating spatula. Look at that shine!

"You do know that is totally ludicrous without us telling you, right?"

"Maybe."

There was a pause.

Neither man was sure why Alfred felt it necessary to lie, but it didn't seem like he was going to budge on it. What reason could he possibly have for not telling them? Peter put his hands on his hips irritably. Alfred was just being ridiculous.

"You have to be-" He started, but was swiftly cut off by Neal.

"Oh, I see you must have used the ladder I have in the closet. Its fine I'm not angry you explored a little since you're going to be living here, for a while anyways." Neal spoke easily and Alfred flipped to a somewhat nervous smile.

"Uhhh yep! Sorry 'bout that, I know how rude that is, heh, Arthur woulda boxed my ears for snooping like that." He took the out readily. Peter felt his eyes bulging. The whole predicament was ridiculous and this shifty cover up? Perhaps he was still asleep . . .

Alfred dished them quietly and carefully using the ladder Neal left the room to procure. During that short moment of his absence, Peter spent gauging the boy. Perhaps it was just as Neal said; a simple case of snoopers guilt. Peter couldn't shake the feeling that nudged his spine. He had it often in his line of work. Hughes would call it a 'gut' instinct, but to Peter it was just a part of him. It always was there. From when Jimmy Clint stole his favorite action figure in the fourth grade, to Fowler's manipulative tricks and the various criminals he out-witted now.

Alfred finished his eleven pancakes with dizzying speed. One forkful after another into that massive maw. They were, of course, huge, comically large forkfuls, but that just made it even grosser to watch.

" Neal, I'm revoking your title as cartoony for now." Peter stated solemnly before turning to the teen.

"Alfred, it's like watching a cartoon!" He exclaimed dramatically. The teen just smiled, flashing them a few blueberry bites in the process.

"Cartoons are cleaner." Neal murmured disgustedly as he scrapped a few of the flying pieces from his shirt. The soggy, half-chewed globs clung to his fingers, his expression made Alfred laugh harder, starting the whole cycle over again.

"Ugh." The two were equally revolted, but Neal had more composure in hiding it that his partner. Alfred couldn't have finished any sooner.

"Alfred, we're going to have to leave soon, so why don't you go clean up while we finish eating." Neal suggested, cutting another small piece of his pancake.

"Sure thing! I gotta dress right if we're going to be catching criminals! Where did I leave my cape?" He suddenly seemed very excitable. He dashed from the room and into the sanctuary of his temporary quarters. The grin faltered and he frowned to himself.

Alfred really did need to be more careful. Everything almost came crashing down because of one stupid tower of pancakes he couldn't help but stack. It was habit! Canada made so many pancakes that they would drown in them if they didn't stack them like they did. Alfred, always having an inclination for math, had invented a pancake-stacking formula. They just did what they did naturally. (Though Canada did get a little heated if he moved his furniture around too much.)

It wasn't a lazy morning with Canada, there was no normalcy in being what he was. He was sent away. He was with random citizens to be _protected._ What was his reality was unacceptable here. The sooner he got used to that, the better. He threw his clothes off, not caring that they knocked over a lamp.

He couldn't help but feel bitter as he entered the steaming water.

* * *

><p>"Whew, the boy certainly can cook, I'll give him that!" Peter complimented as he pulled another from the smaller pile Alfred had served up. The slight sound of water could be heard from Alfred's room and they were now free from his ears.<p>

"Keep going like that and you'll finally have an excuse to buy that new wardrobe I've been trying to convince you that you need." Neal joked and felt amused when his partner glared.

"This is only my fourth one." He tried to and failed to keep the defensiveness out of his tone before he continued.

"Besides, Alfred was eating them like they candy. He's not going to be a teenager forever, and those habits will really bite him in the ass." Peter smirked.

"I'm getting some seriously creepy vibes from you. Do you want him to be fat or something?" Neal was giving his partner a quirk of a brow.

"That's- that's not what I meant and you know it!" He defended quickly.

"You sure." Neal took pleasure from the fluster of his partner. The moment was held for a moment, like suspended on slowly, unwinding twine. It was so normal for them it was almost painful.

"Peter."

"Yeah." He already knew what he was going to say.

"The ladder is kept under the bed."

"I know." They stared at each other.

* * *

><p>As Neal waited impatiently for the teen to finish, Peter began to set himself up in the living room. Suddenly Peter dropped a stack of CD's and was staring at Neal in shock.<p>

"Are you wearing fleece Pajama's? And, my god, you're actually wearing the top!" He remarked looking in mock-shock. Neal just rolled his eyes.

"I don't think my silk bottoms will be getting much action for a while. Not with Alfred hanging around like anti-woman repellant."

"Poor Neal, have you ever considered joining a monastery? I think it would probably be roomier." Peter teased.

They heard an ominous crash echo from Alfred's room. By this point they knew better then to check.

"Probably quieter too."

"I don't know if it would be worth sacrificing this view." Neal said glancing out the window.

"Yeah, you are kind of a view snob."

"A what?" Neal regarded Peter with a mix of curiosity and amusement.

"A view snob. You are obsessive and picky about the window placements and how large they are and-"

"I am not a view snob." Neal scoffed.

"You are. I was following your trail for four years, every location we tracked you to, had some wide view. Over lakes, rivers, cities." Peter shrugged.

"You're a snob." He stated simply.

"And you're imagining things." Neal said. Mentally he was trying to double check if that was actually true.

"Remember the day I caught you in the hotel?" Peter asked.

"Yeah Peter, I think I might remember the day I was sent to jail." Neal said sarcastically.

"There were over four hundred rooms to check. I cut that number in half by only checking the top floors."

Neal was speechless.

"You've got to be kidding me." Peter gave a very pleased smile.

"You caught me because of some weird pre-conception that I was some kind of view snob?" Peter nodded.

"Jesus Peter! That's ridiculous! Where the hell do you come up with these things?"

"A view snob . . ." He muttered. He was running that night through his mind. Kate and he had been so close to escaping, if he only had a few more minutes to shimmy down that gutter . . .

"Maybe this Alfred situation isn't as bad as you think." Peter put forth, changing the subject.

"Oh yeah, how's that?"

"You could take him under your wing, try and get him to tone-" (he paused searching for the right word) "-everything down a little bit." Neal looked sour at the thought.

" . . .What if it rubs off on me?"

"My God, how old are you again? Still afraid of getting cooties?" They shared a smile.

"Howdy!" Alfred's voice greeted from the top of the stairs. They turned to greet him but blanched at the sight that greeted him.

Today Alfred was wearing some faded blue jeans that looked dusty and well worn. His belt buckle was large as his hand and gleamed with faux gold, and the word "COCK" was printed in capitals upon it. He had a pair of rusty brown cowboy boots that were authentically dusty. (Actually his whole persona seemed to be coated in a thin layer of dust, surprising since supposedly he just got _out _of the shower.) He had a red-button down plaid shirt and he had topped his ensemble with a brown cowboy hat which he tipped towards them in greeting.

"Are we leavin' yet?" He asked with a distinctive Texan drawl.

"Oh, my god . . . What are you wearing?" Neal asked looking from unsightly item to unsightly item. Alfred just let loose a long and obnoxious laugh.

"That's what Iggy said when he first saw me wearin' this. Well, he said it in his weir' british way and he was all shoutin' them crazy British words. 'Course I know he was jus' jelou-"

"GO change." Peter demanded pointing towards the stairs, cutting off Alfred who frowned.

"Are you gonna act this way every time I change clothes?" He asked, switching into his normal manner of speaking. "Let me know in advance so I can prepare my wardrobe accordingly." He said sarcastically.

"Change. Please." He pointed.

"You can't make me!"

"Change!"

"No, you're worse than the guy that raised me!"

"CHANGE!"

"NO! I'll run away and join the circus! I wonder what Hughes will think 'bout that." He said petulantly.

Peter looked like he was going to explode from how red his face turned and he opened his mouth when Neal cut him off in his strong and sensible tone.

"Peter, it's probably better if he hears this from me." Neal said cutting in. Once Peter realized this was going nowhere he powered down and walked over to the side for a moment.

"Alfred . . .?" Neal looked the teen straight in the eyes.

"Yes Neal?" Smile blinding and charming in a way that reminded Neal eerily of Shirley Temple for some reason.

"Go change. I refuse to be seen in public with you. You look like you ran _away_ from the circus."

Alfred looked between the two of them for any chance of them standing down.

"Tch." He made a sound in annoyance.

"Fine, I'll go chance. But you can't reject all my clothes if they don't suit _your _tastes! That's why their called my clothes and not yours."

"There's a reason why none of my clothes look like that." Peter called as he disappeared back into his room.

"You're lucky I believe in democracy!" He shouted from the loft.

The two sighed.

"We have to keep Elle and Mozzie away from him, we don't need him getting their votes." Peter muttered and Neal nodded in agreement.

"Well I'm going to jump in the shower. Make yourself at home." Neal said the last comment with some sarcasm over his shoulder as he walked to his bedroom to pick out his clothes for the day.

When Neal emerged, feeling a new man from the relaxing jets of water, Alfred was sitting on the couch tapping away on his phone. This time he was dressed much more sensibly in a white tee-shirt and red hoodie with the same worn jeans. It looked a little hot for the weather, but Neal didn't care so long as he never saw that garish belt again.

Peter pulled him aside with a serious look on his face.

"What are we even supposed to do with him at work?" Peter asked in a muted tone.

"No clue. Maybe we could give him a coloring book and stick him in the corner." His partner cracked a smile.

"You think that would work?" Neal rolled his eyes.

"He's a teenager, Peter. The hard part is getting them to pay attention. I'm sure he can entertain himself. If not, you can have him organize your desk or fetch files or something." Across the room Alfred gave a snorting laugh.

"Then again, the corner may be the best place for him."

* * *

><p><strong>Omake!<strong>

When Alfred woke up the next day he realized two important things.

The first was that he was very hungry.

The second was that he had no idea where he was.

He blinked stupidly at the white ceiling as if expecting it to change with each flap of a lid.

'_That was odd.'_

He was almost entirely sure that his ceiling had a mural of all his most awesome movie posters, along with a few cut-outs. Last he checked anyways. Someone could have taken them down. Prussia had a habit of pranking him, but so far, this was too painless and not humiliating enough to be the work of the albino.

It might have been France. Then again, he still had his clothes on so that kind of ruled him out.

That one guy who lived by him was too shy.

Poland would think it didn't have enough sparkles.

If it was Russia, his commie-senses would have tingled and waken him up.

Same for China.

Japan was too respectful.

Italy would have fallen off the ladder.

Greece probably would be asleep. He was always sleeping.

'_Unless . . . he was nocturnal and did all of his important work at night! Like fighting crime a vigilante in fact!.' _Alfred tucked that thought away as something to ponder later and plowed on.

He didn't even know where 'Nordic' was.

He went through all the countries. Each one seemed less and less a likely culprit. His thoughts started to wander too. Getting farther and farther away from the actual subject. He caught himself when he was at the point of designing the secret head-quarters for Greece-man and his merry band of dancing cats that could blow things up with their meows.

He'd have to send that one to Steven and see what he thought of it. For now sleep was probably the safest option.

* * *

><p>Haaaa that was my first attempt at this chapter.<p>

Aren't we glad we ditched it?

Does not own the songs "Dentist!" from Little Shop of Horrors nor "You are a Pirate" from Lazy Town.

Haha, yeah I took a few liberty's in this chapter. I hope it turned out alright. If it didn't let me know you skallywags!

Also I would love some help witht eh White Collar, I don't feel like I'm doing either Peter or Neal any justice.

(Mozzie . . . . will come later when I can figure out how to write him)

**Please, Re**view?

I really would love to know what you all think. Umm especially if it sucks. . . .

P.S. I Love~ long reviews!

**RE**view!


	4. A Day With a LoveChild

Woah. I'm getting pretty good at this. Thanks again all you wonderful people for reviewing! Also, Love, there's more so don't be sad!

Yay! 20,000 word mark! Totally only at chapter four and like nothing has really happened so far. . . . *Gets depressed*

*Shakes cobwebs off*

But stuff _does_ go down kinda-sorta this chapter so thank bejebus for that.

I kinda know where I wanna go with this story so that is also a plus.

In any case, this story is still Un-Beta'd. I've been listening to Regina Spektor all week and I feel pretty proud of myself for finishing this chapter. It gives me hope that one day the story will be finished too!

I also made an Omake at the end of last chapter so you should check that out if you haven't!

(I hope I'm not getting worse as I go along.)

(Also that my ideas make some semblance of sense.)

P.S. I wonder if anyone reads the quotes. They really are fantastic things.

BTW. **I would love if I could get 15 reviews this time.** Like seriously.

DO NOT OWN ANYTHING.

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><p>Chapter Four: A Day With a Love-Child.<p>

"_The most important American addition to the World Experience was the simple surprising fact of America. We have helped prepare mankind for all its later surprises." _

_~Daniel J. Boorstin_

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><p>The chime of the elevator door might as well have been the trumpets of angels. The occupants exhaled collectively in mirroring sounds of relief. Several gave glances back at the three before quickly hurrying away to do their own business.<p>

With his American flag shutter shades, cowboy boots, which he somehow managed to smuggle past his two companions, and the fedora he pinched from Neal's closet, he certainly was a sight to see. That wasn't mentioning the terrible, excited grin on his face as he looked around the office. He stuck out like a sore thumb next to all the immaculate suits around him. Today, like most days in Alfred's life, was casual Friday. Even though the calendar read Monday.

"Couldn't you have tried to make him wear something better?" Peter asked his partner. The words were quiet; anything to prevent the teen from over hearing and spurring on another loud round of arguing over Alfred's clothes. It was, apparently, a very circular discussion because he managed to more of less do what he wanted anyways. Only the hideous belt would have made the outfit more unsightly than it already was. And that was truly saying something.

"Me? What about you?" Neal replied, going from incredulous to challenging in three point five.

"What was I supposed to do? I wouldn't exactly call my last attempt all that successful." He reminded the con.

"And mine was? He's not all that better. At least before he matched . . ." He watched as Alfred pressed his face against the glass of the bull-pen. A few workers were startled when they noticed the squashed face peering into the pen like it was the zoo. Neal half expected him to start tapping the glass.

"Ugh stop. I don't want to picture it." Peter dismissed with a grimace. He then snapped to attention as he noticed Alfred.

"Geez! What are you doing?" Peter pulled the teen up and away from the now slobbery glass.

'_He couldn't resist could he?' _Neal thought, as he looked at the once pristine surface with dislike.

"Isn't it exciting being in a federal building! I can't believe you guys getta go here every day!"

Alfred had been in every American federal structure ever made. From the cubicles of bureaucracy to the courthouses, and yes, even the U.S. post offices. Still, he couldn't help but feel truly touched by all of them. The people were right on the front lines. They were directly fighting to preserve their rights and beliefs. For them to spend their precious, eternally dwindling time, serving America and keeping him safe, (from pretty much everything) was almost too much for Alfred to handle. He seriously felt a few happy and proud tears build from behind his smile.

Peter apparently didn't get that feeling, because he was staring at Alfred with a deadpanned expression.

"Alfred, you were here yesterday." He received a smile in response.

"Well yeah, and it was totally just as cool, but now it's officially official!"

"You were asleep yesterday, how exciting could it have been?" Peter asked sarcastically.

"What's officially official?" Neal quirked a brow and Alfred turned to him with an absolutely blinding smile.

"Me joining your crime-fighting team!" There was a pregnant pause.

"Alfred, I don't know who told you that you would be-" Ah that wasn't quite right, Peter was pretty much sure that Alfred had come up with this little idea all by himself. He rubbed his hand across his face tiredly. From the corner of his eye, he could tell Neal was suppressing a grin.

Crime fighters.

'_I suppose that it is true that Peter and I fight crime, isn't it.' _It just sounded so much sillier when Alfred put it like that. Like some cheesy cop show, or cartoon. So much of what they did was more mental than physical that he didn't know if he would call it 'fighting' per say, but more so outmaneuvering. Like a life sized chess match.

'_Then again, chess pieces don't get locked in rooms where the air gets sucked out, or get threatened by undercover Interpol cops and they certainly don't get shot at.' _

"Alfred, thanks so much for your generous offer, but I think Neal and I have it more than covered." Peter gave a faked smile, and hoped that this would be the end of the discussion so they could actually go inside and accomplish something today.

"Eh! That's not fair! You can't just shaft me out like that! What am I supposed to do all day?" Alfred whined and Peter rolled his eyes.

"I don't know. Read a book? Play in traffic? Fly a kite? Look, I really don't care what you do all day just as long as one of us is around you at all time so Hughes doesn't blow a gasket."

"B-but that's not fair! You guys totally need me!"

"You look like you're sixteen! Sorry kid, but you must be this tall to fight crime." He raised his hand up to his own height which was a few inches above Alfred's own. Peter couldn't help but smile at how riled up the teen was getting.

"I'm two-" He stopped in his tracks. Two-hundred thrity-ish wasn't really an acceptable answer. At least he didn't think they would take to it. How old was he on his I.D. again? Forty-three? Or was it ten? Humans lived such short lives. A decade was worth the world to them, and it was meant dust to Alfred. Literally. He didn't go into some of his rooms because so many years worth of dust had built up.

"Nineteen!" He exclaimed changing. "I'm already an adult!"

"Oh golly! So old, I'm so sorry, I didn't know! Neal? Did you know? Gosh this changes everything!" Peter said in mock shock.

"I'm being serious! I'm a major asset!" Alfred proclaimed in such a self-assured voice that Peter couldn't help but roll his eyes.

"Oh really?"

"Yes really!"

"And why is that?" Suddenly Alfred drew himself up tall and looked at Peter with an aged look. The fed was momentarily struck speechless. There was so much wisdom within those cerulean depths. . .

That ended abruptly as Alfred settled into a cheesy pose complete with thumbs up. He was smiling so hard, his 'wise' eyes were closed.

"You need me, because I'm the Hero!" His two companions just stared at him. A viewer gave a cough announcing her presence.

"I heard you two had a new love-child but it's nice to see it firsthand. He's certainly a loud one, isn't he?" Special Agent Lauren Cruz commented with a smirk as she pushed the trio into the bull-pen. They had been standing out there making a scene for longer than she felt was necessary.

"Our-"

"-Love-child?" The two partners stared at each other with identical looks of disgust and horror.

"Lauren, I'm beginning to seriously doubt your mental wellbeing." Neal said, his gentlemanly charm the only thing keeping him from throwing-up all over the carpet.

"Lauren, I'm beginning to doubt your place on my team." Peter said giving her a look. That was definitely over the line of what might be constituted as 'appropriate.' Like four thousand miles from the line.

If the female agent was at all bothered by the threat on her job, she didn't show it.

"Hey, I've just been repeating what they've been saying." She shrugged.

"Who's been saying that?" Peter snapped at her. Neal was too shocked to say anything. The color was rapidly draining from his charming face. It was being circulated that he had an obnoxious love child with his male co-investigator. His life could end now. Please.

Lauren held her hands up in a placating gesture.

"Calm down, it's not being spread around seriously. It's pretty much just an abbreviation. Saying, 'Peter and Neal's new job as protection detail for some kid, wait goddamn, someone find me that damn kids name!' was way too long to bring up casually. Hughes was getting really flustered when he'd try and explain what was going on. You should have seen it, his face got so red." Peter would have smiled, and it probably would have made Neal's day just picturing it, but there were certainly more pressing things at hand. Like their love child.

Said 'love-child' was looking around a little confused. Because surely the hero wouldn't be the one being called a love-child. . . They must have been talking about someone else. Perhaps they did actually have a love child. That might make a good soap opera . . .

The female agent coughed before continuing.

"Anyways, from now on it's being called _Operation Love-child _to save confusion." Peter just looked desperate now.

"Why? Just why! Of all the names they could have picked! They chose _Operation Love-Child_?"

"Maybe 'cause you guys fight like an old couple." Alfred put forward boredly. So far his amazing day of crime-fighting was starting pretty lame. He supposed it was a little early for explosions and fistfights, but c'mon! It was practically nine already.

"Exactly! They do don't they?" Lauren agreed before being flattened by parallel glares.

"Who came up with this anyways?" Neal asked frustrated. Someone must have had a pretty big chip on their shoulder to suggest something like '_Operation Love Child' _as a legit mission name. A chip the size of Mount Everest.

"It was a communal effort; now get inside your damn office and do some work! The day's wasting!" Hughes shouted from atop the stairs making the party jump and turn around.

"Er, right away sir!" Peter replied hastily and Hughes just waved dismissively before heading back into his office.

"Man, don't worry about him; you probably just hurt his feelings because you didn't like the name he came up with." Alfred said patting Peter on the back easily. The fed just sighed tiredly before moving with uncharacteristically sluggish steps towards his office.

"What do we have today Lauren?" Peter asked.

"Nothing yet, it's been a slow day so far. Most of the high profile cases have been passed out already." She explained.

"So today is probably going to be a paperwork day?" Peter asked quirking a smile and Neal groaned at the prospect of spending the whole day watching Peter do his paperwork; the sheer boredom would drive him to insanity.

"I'm afraid so." Lauren groaned sharing Neal's sentiments. She had a rather large stack of her own paperwork awaiting her on her desk.

"I probably should get started on mine. I'll bring something over if it comes up." She assured them before stepping from the room.

"Soo, what do we do while we wait for someone to commit a crime?" Alfred asked.

"You can sit in those chairs and staple my packets." Peter had drawn his jacket off with a sweeping gesture and placed it on his chair. He rubbed his hands together, eager to get a start on his paperwork.

"Hahahahha, ahh that's funny. What are we really going to be doing?" Alfred asked looking around as if a clue was going to appear. Peter just nodded to the extra seat.

" . . . You're kidding?" Alfred asked with a deadpanned expression on his face.

"You want to help fight crime? Pick up a stapler." Alfred looked at the black, plastic object with horror. It was so frighteningly similar to the time that he had discovered how much paperwork there was to do when you became a country.

"_You wish to help me? Take up a pen my lad!" _It wasn't funny when George said it, and it certainly wasn't funny now.

Alfred groaned and put his head against the desk. He gave up.

Peter was mulling over which case file he should redo first. Alfred's slobber had destroyed about two weeks worth of paperwork and ironically enough; the thing that had saved him from his wife's wrath was Alfred, the very cause of it.

* * *

><p>~Last Evening~<p>

"_You have a charge now?" At his nod she was obviously intrigued. So much so that the amount of all-nighters he would have to pull, for the moment, slipped to the back of her mind._

_They were lounging on the couch in their family room after a hard day's work. Dinner had been lovely, and they were enjoying some red wine (that Neal had suggested) by candlelight as they talked about what happened in their days._

"_So? What's he like then?" Her stunning blue-gray eyes were alight with excitement. _

"_Well, he's certainly unique." Peter said slowly with his quirky half-smile._

"_Yeah, unique how?" Elizabeth pressed. This left the fed at a loss of words. How did one go about describing someone like Alfred? Someone who was all over the place all the time. Was there a limit on how many words he could use? Because he was sure that his collage thesis would be shorter than his rambling attempt at describing the enigmatic boy. He paused. Yes, he supposed the boy was enigmatic. He hardly knew anything about him so far. Elle waved a hand in front of his face and he remembered what he was doing._

"_He's just-" He gestured a little with his hands and Elizabeth gave a small but slightly frustrated smile._

"_As descriptive as this-" She emulated his vague hand gestures, "-is, I think it would be more productive is we used out words. Unless you wanted to try this in sign language?" He chuckled at her as she gave his a mock serious look and began making random motions with her hands._

"_What are you saying?" He asked amusedly. She was making the weirdest facial expressions as her arms twisted about. _

"_I never took sign language, but Lucy did in high school. I'm pretty sure this is the sign for helicopter." She smiled as she thought of her best friend from long ago._

"_Ah thank you for clearing that up, it makes so much more sense now." He moved in so close that their noses were practically touching and she rubbed them together and pulled him in for a smattering of teasingly chaste kisses._

"_You know- Neal knows- sign- language." He said breathlessly between kisses. She sat back and gave him a smolder. God she was gorgeous when she was angry._

"_I put up with sharing you during the day, but at night, you're mine!" _

"_I think I can live with that." He said with a warm smile. She graced him with another kiss. By the time she pulled away, he could tell that she had come towards some kind of decision._

"_We'll just have to invite him over to dinner tomorrow, won't we?" _

"_Who?" Peter asked distractedly. If you had asked Peter what his own name was right now, he was sure he couldn't tell you._

"_Alfred."_

_Who else would it be? He let out a sigh._

"_I'm guessing that you'll want to invite Neal and Mozzie too?" She bit her lip almost guilty but smiled._

"_Yes." _

"_Do we have to invite the little weird one?"_

"_You know, you're all pretty weird." She said with a bubbling laugh. "But yes, I like Mozzie. Don't go pretending he's not helpful when the two of you do your little cases."_

_She had a point. Mozzie was one of their most useful assets. He might even go so far to call Mozzie an ally. But there was something so slippery and almost vulpine in his nature that had Peter second guessing his every move. Ulterior motive was the name of the game and it was played almost ritualistically by the three. Peter, Neal and Mozzie. He supposed that they probably would seem pretty weird to onlookers of their strangeness._

"_Fine." He said more dramatically than was necessary. She gave him a happy smile and he gave her a stern one._

"_Only if you stop lending him Satchmo. I'm pretty sure he's using our dog to con people." She rolled her eyes._

"_Honey you're being too paranoid."_

"_Sure, that's just what he wants you to think."_

~End of flashback~

* * *

><p>About two hours passed with Neal ducking in an out of the office on his whims. Peter was working ever so diligently on his paperwork. This left Alfred to sit on the chair on reluctantly staple every lose paper that came his way. It wasn't like he was just going to ignore them. If they weren't stapled, then they might lose an important paper that could condemn a bad guy. Not on Alfred's watch.<p>

This was, unfortunately, mindless work. It left his mind free to think about other things.

Like the next world conference.

He was pretty much sure that the world was conspiring against him because it was being held in Russia this time. The very place with people who thought he was some random human who had some family secret that had been passed down from generation to generation and was the key to authenticating several paintings. The whole thing sounded ridiculous to even him. He didn't know how the humans thought this was real. Then again most people didn't' think aliens were real and that was scoff worthy. Not that he would scoff. That was an England thing.

Alfred had no real problem with there being people who wanted to kill him. It really wasn't all that unusual. He supposed that he was like Neal and Peter in that respect; it just didn't faze him anymore. No, the threat on his life wasn't anything surprising or new. What was bothering him was what he knew his boss would freak out once he found out where it was being held. He probably would tell him not to go. Which was silly-people talk.

He _had to go. _The number one super-power being absent? That would go over real smooth. Especially if the other countries found out he was hiding away from humans of all things. Ugh. He could already hear them teasing him. Even Italy would probably laugh at him! It just didn't happen. Particularly because he was America; the country who could lift cars and blow up stuff like it was lint. The strength wasn't just for show.

Every country had more experience fighting than any human could ever hope to have. They could singlehandedly take out a few hundred easily. Add a few hundred years worth of experience plus America's monstrous strength meant that humans weren't very intimidating. At all, really. That's why countries are only supposed to fight each other physically. Because for humans, there would be no chance.

He wondered if he could get away with not telling his boss and sneaking away to Mattie's and hiding in his luggage or something. Perhaps he could convince his brother to help him scare England by leaving him in the Brit's room instead. He would wait until England was sleeping and then scare him. Of course he would have to take an emergency hamburger supply. Mattie didn't like the fantastic food almost as much as Arthur; albeit he was much quieter about his objections. Maybe he could bribe his brother with pancakes. Though he really would have to find out what his secret ingedient was . . . Then again, Mattie would probably be busy cleaning after the G8 Meeting that was being held before the conference. Perhaps he should kidnap his brother and they could just disappear for a few days. Somewhere nice, Like Nantucket.

A sigh escaped his lips and he puffed a stray hair on his forehead. He knew it couldn't do it. His boss would totally freak out and think he was kidnapped and stuff. Then he would be even _more_ protective of Alfred. He _reaaalllyy _didn't want that. He was very lucky that his boss understood Alfred so well. If he really wanted to, he could have caged Alfred until the threat disappeared, but instead he chose the more challenging, and more complicated path of hiding him. He kept Alfred's freedom safely intact and the country was eternally grateful.

Certain countries actually refused to let their personifications be an active part of anything. They were so worried about them that they kept 'em locked up. It was called C.I.N. which stood for Countries In Cognito. More like prison. Even Alfred, who loved acronyms and home security, thought it was twisted business.

Safe and secure. The power someone could hold over the country just by having the personified person, or for example, if you had a particularly clumsy country-personification on your hands, drove them to become obsessively protective. Borderline crazy. It disgusted Alfred whose entire existence was based upon freedom. He knew others felt similarly, but there really wasn't anything they could do.

The personified people themselves would sit and wait and wilt. Waiting for a new ruler to come along who would change things, all the while, being unable to hate the ones that had locked them up. It was demented, but they could not hate the ruler if the people didn't. And the only reason they had locked them up was because they cared, right? Right?

So they died, slowly, over a span of a few hundred years from the lack of contact with that which they actually embodied. The people, the land and the economy. Their souls, their blood and their livehood. Some had never been released in their entire existence.

Thankfully, it was only within a few countries now and days. Most had come out of the closet, so to speak. It made relations easier using two personified nations to do all the talking. They knew what the people wanted, and they knew what the country needed. It made things go much faster. In some countries, mainly in Africa, the personification was actually unknown. This was usually where the government was tumultuous.

In any case he would definitely need a supply of hamburgers. Russian food sucked. Not to mention he'd be dragged to the ballet. So comic books and a portable television was a must. Plus some kind of stomach easer if he and England ended up bunking together and the latter decided the try his cooking again.

"Hey watch what you're doing!" Peter exclaimed making Alfred start.

"Oh. Ooops." He'd been stapling the same paper multiple times and there was a pretty little line of staples going across the top. Peter just groaned and undid them with proficient jerks of the de-stapler.

"Why don't you just sort the files based on the number at the top?" he said kindly, though Alfred was sure the repressed anger was building up somewhere. Ah he found it on the man's brow. Wow. Only a few hours of fighting paper crime with a stapler and he was already being demoted to file organizer.

"Ouch."

"That's my line." Peter complained showing one of his fingers that he had stabbed with a staple. A single drop of blood oozed from it that Alfred had previously overlooked. His hair stood on end and he had to physically fight his base instincts. One of his people was bleeding in front of him. He was literally watching him bleed. If he stuck that would in water he could potentially bleed out. Claire's and Bill's blood was flowing out too. Thousands of generations had donated the blood that led to Peter. It was American blood. It had been American blood for 150 years. Their precious blood was . . . screw it!

"Geez! Where do you guys keep the dang band-aids?" Peter seemed both amused and perplexed as he watched Alfred ransack the drawer's for a little plastic bandage. Alfred was glad the man couldn't see his hands because they were shaking.

"It's just a little prick. I'm not going to die or anything." He said smiling. Alfred ether didn't hear him or didn't care because he kept going.

"Hey! Don't touch that pile its confidential files!" Peter shooed the teen away.

"Alfred! Look its fine, not even bleeding. Besides that point we don't keep band-aids in the files!" Alfred took a moment to glance at him disbelievingly from over his shoulder.

"But you have to stop the bleeding!"

"It is stopped!"

"No it's not you lied! I can smell it!" He exclaimed and tried to grab Peter's hand to see for himself. The man wasn't making it very easy for him and Alfred couldn't use his full strength or risk to further damage the human.

"Erm what's going on here?" Lauren asked as she entered and Alfred untangled himself from Peter to latch onto the woman who was looking very surprised.

"Where do you guys keep the band-aids? Peter's hurt himself!"

"Oh um Jan keeps a supply up in the cabinet above the coffee." She said and the teen hurried off.

"Oh gosh Peter! Are you okay?" Lauren asked concernedly and he snapped at her.

"I just jabbed myself with a staple! The kids acting like I was stabbed with a knife or something." She smirked again and Alfred re-entered the room with windswept hair, showing that he had in fact, ran the whole way.

"Lemme see your finger." Alfred ordered and Peter stared at him incredulously.

"I'm a big boy. I think I can put on a band-aid." He said sarcastically. Alfred just shook his head.

"Hand."

"You're crazy." Alfred just stared at him resolutely. He finally relented and stuck his finger out to Alfred whom carefully pulled the "Hello Kitty" band-aid from the wrapping and placed it onto Peter's finger with shaky hands. Apparently the teen was in such a hurry he grabbed one of the children ones Jan brought for when people brought their kids to work. Peter finally noticed his trembling when Alfred let out a long breath.

"Were you shaking Alfred?" The teen jerked a little.

"Uhmmm I don't like blood?" The country was saved any further questioning by Neal.

"As touching as this is, I think the reason Lauren came in was to tell us Hughes has a case for waiting for us in the conference room. Nice choice by the way, I think the pink really brings out his eyes." He said coughing to hide the grin on his face. Alfred was the first to leave apparently wanting to distance himself the best he could from his still slightly bleeding citizen. Lauren was a step behind him.

Though the personifications could always feel the suffering going around them, they were usually more or less unable to do anything about it because it was so far away. It was all over the place all the time. When it was placed directly in front of them, they couldn't help but try and help. Many countries had broken on the battle field, being so surrounded by their citizen's suffering. It was unlike any other feeling imaginable. Even just a prick. A small drop of their blood had so much history. And to a country, history was everything.

Behind him, Peter moved to cuff his partner for his jibe at the band-aid, but the con skillfully ducked. The older man didn't dare take it off or risk having a repeat performance from the teen, but that didn't mean he was going to suffer through Neal's shit.

"Not one word." He said holding up a finger and Neal actually broke out in a very uncharacteristically loud laugh. Peter was momentarily confused until he realized he had raised the finger with the band-aid. He flushed and shoved the hand in his pocket.

"I mean it Neal!"

"Yes, yes of course." He said calming down and wiping a few tears. He glowered a little more before turning away and heading to the conference room.

"Finally, now we can start the presentation." Hughes said and the pair quickly ducked and found seats around the table. Alfred was apparently feeling better because he was spinning in circles in one of the swivel chairs. Also seated at the table were agents Lauren Cruz, Dianna Berrigan and Clinton Jones and they were watching the charge amusedly.

"So this is your guys' love-" Agent Jones whispered from across the table.

"One word and you'll be off my team faster than you can say 'fired.'" The agent shut his mouth promptly and quickly turned his head to the board.

"Can I start now?" Hughes said irritably.

"Yes, sorry sir." The older man just raised a brow and turned towards the board.

"It's a pretty straight-forward mission. Meet Michael Frampton. He's an expert in antiquities and documents from the 1600's. We've worked with him before, if you can recall agent Burke the Madson case?"

Peter furrowed his brow and Neal looked confused.

"Believe it or not, we did solve cases before you came along."

"No it's not that Peter." Neal said rolling his eyes. "It's that Michael Frampton is also a well known agoraphobic. He hasn't left his house in years."

"Yeah yeah, I remember he was the shut-in."

"Agoraphobic." Neal corrected automatically and Peter waved him off.

"Whatever. What exactly is he being suspected for?"

"Did he forge some internet shopping bills or did he lie about his age on facebook?" The sarcasm in Neal's voice was palpable. This really was pretty dull even from Hughes.

"Neal, show a little respect!"

"I'm just saying-"

"We think he's been forging bonds from the Dutch East India Trading Company." The two men turned towards him. Eyes were brightly lit with interest.

"Now have I got your attention?" They sat down guiltily.

"As I was saying, Michael Frampton has indeed, not left his house in twenty years. However he on rare occasion visitors and his financier visits him bi-weekly to go over his funds."

"That's a little often." Neal pointed out.

"That's what we were thinking. The name is Charlie Lewis and they've been meeting like this for a little more than five years."

"So you think Charlie is the one fencing the bonds."

"Has to be. He more or less refuses to see anyone else."

"So how does he do consults?" Neal asked referring to the last case he apparently helping work.

"People call or email asking his opinions."

"Think I could do that?"

"Are you pinning for your bars?" Neal frowned as Peter smirked.

"I meant if I happened to become an agoraphobic."

"I don't think you could keep yourself entertained for very long."

What kind of life must that be, being inside and alone all the time? America once understood. Back then when he refused to take part in the goings-about of the European countries. But that was a long long time ago. He didn't want to remember. Back then he was alone. But back then he was mostly self-sufficient. Weather or not the trade was fair, he still didn't know. Too late now for second guessing.

"Why is he even a suspect?"

"His house is bursting with antiques and parchment from the 1600's. Museums would love to steal from him and archaeologists would get lost for days studying his collection. It's even said that he has an authentic printing press from that time plus an excess of paper and ink that can be carbon-dated back to that time."

"So he has all the tools and supplies he needs." Lauren observed.

"Not to mentions that he is the one who authenticated several of them."

"What better way to pass of your own forgeries." Neal said impressed and Hughes nodded.

"Was there any discrepancy's?" Clinton wondered as he stared at their own photocopied version contained in the files.

"No. But with materials like that, there would be no scientific way of figuring that out. Except to find proof or catch him in the act."

"Who tipped you off?" Diana asked.

"George Swanson, he's an old friend of mine who was handling the case. I'm doing a favor for him by checking his hunch, so this means . . . ?" He asked trailing off and the other agents parroted the response like well-trained obedient children.

"Completely off the books sir."

"And if anyone asks what you're investigating?"

"Mortgage fraud."

"Damn straight." He said gruffly as he stared the teen. There was an almost challenging look in his eyes. Daring him to say something, or at least be morally outraged. Alfred just smiled mysteriously and Hughes nodded. The kid had passed some kind of test Neal supposed.

"What I want to know, is how we're going to get into his house. Especially if the guy is the type that would send the girl scouts packing."

Neal would swear that he heard Alfred muttering 'Inhuman' under his breath, but perhaps it was just his imagination.

"Charlie managed to convince him that denying us access would just cause more suspicion. They don't know that our actions aren't exactly being backed up by the government and I plan to keep it that way." He said making sure to catch each of their eyes before he continued.

"Because we don't have a warrant and are just there on his 'good will,' you can't tear up the house looking for clues. They have to either be in plain sight, or revealed by the owner, do I make myself clear?"

"Yes sir." They already knew what the standard protocol was but Hughes always seemed to feel like reminding them.

"Good, now I told them that we would be dropping by tomorrow, so head out now and see if you can catch them covering something up." It was a pretty straight-forwards mission. Go in, look for proof, leave. Peter didn't know why he was feeling so uneasy about it. The obnoxious pop of bubble-gum across the room reminded him. He quickly pulled the older man over to the side and began talking swiftly through a smile as though he was telling a personal story or something of the sort. It seemed unnecessary because Alfred looked plenty occupied by the questions that Dianna, Lauren and Clinton sent his way.

"Sir. What exactly are we supposed to so with Alfred?"

"Take him with you of course." Hughes replied and Peter couldn't quite keep the look of incredulity off of his face.

"Look, this is just some routine information recon. If you find something suspicious you report that back and we get a warrant and go in full-scale. If not than you leave and that wraps up that business. Besides, maybe he'll learn something."

Peter knew it was true. There was practically no risk on this mission. He also knew that he listened to his gut over his mind more often than not. But what could he do about it? The time for acting was now, Hughes was already sending them out. He would just have to keep close to the teen and make sure nothing happened.

As he watched the teen laugh so hard he fell from the swivel chair Peter knew he would have to keep very, very close.

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><p>Yay! Things are finally going to happen next time!<p>

(Does anything I'm trying to say make sense to anyone else besides me?)

Let me know if this sucks.

Just in general, review please.

They really do make my day to read them. I take hours and hours to write this and it would take you but a few minutes or less to leave a note telling me your opinion.

Just saying.

Oh, and I posted some random D. Gray -man story, so you should check that out if you're interested.

**Re**View?

Please?


	5. A day in the Netherlands

Hello Everyone! Thank you all so much for reading and extra special thanks for all my reviewers! You guy seriously amaze me! (iii I want to message you back . . . but you didn't sign in! Gah!)

For all your awesome love, **there is a OMAKE **at the end.

I love it when you all ask me questions it makes me rethink what I'm doing and promotes better thought processes when I write, so ask away!

**Important! The name of my story will be changing to "National Security" Starting next chapter because SuperNekoFan is too cool for words and thought up this cool title for me. Thanks darling!~**

I never thought this chapter was going to come out for some reason. It took so long for me to get this written out. (I still don't know if I like it very much,) but maybe you all will help me decide that!

I have a new Beta! So lots of love and hugs and presents to Kanae Valentine. Thank you so much! If it weren't for her, I probably would've tossed this chapter out.

I listened to **Imogen Heap's "Hide and Seek" **for longer than I ought to have.

I wonder if I could even ask for **20** reviews. That would be, beyond cool.

(Longest chapter to date!)

I don't own anything!

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><p>"<em>It's never paid to bet against America. We come through things, but it's not always a smooth ride".<em>_Warren Buffett_

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><p>The sun lay high in the cerulean sky. Several puffs of white decorated the horizon and a pleasant breeze was pushing from the coast. The swirling, invisible currents ascended strands of hair into its airspace as it meandered through the busy town. People walking through the city or some in commute for lunch, welcomed the breath of cool air in their midday, especially since it was often sweltering in the summer. Many workers outside were rejoicing but inwardly longing for the far-off clouds to cover the sun to give them respite from the rays.<p>

Despite the unusually perfect conditions, Neal couldn't seem to enjoy today very much.

"**-when I see your face,**

**There's not a thing that I would change-" **

Ah, that was why.

In the backseat, Alfred was gracing them with a very loud rendition of some pop song that happened to be on the radio. Usually the pair drove in silence, with a smattering of conversations between the gaps. Apparently, today wouldn't be remembered for the silence and quiet companionship.

It wasn't that they didn't like music. Both enjoyed losing themselves is the beats measures and memories any particular tune might inspire.

Unfortunately for two people who loved music, their tastes couldn't seem to overlap in any genre except for the occasional Christmas jingle during the holidays. (There was no way Neal would listen to Christmas music all year long. He would be driven beyond crazy.)

The moment Alfred (reluctantly) sat down in the backseat, (this was following a good ten minutes of arguing about the validity of his claim of 'shot-gun' which were only quelled by Neal's exclamation of 'seniority') he was reaching his fingers through the gap between the two men's arms to toggle the dials.

They were a little surprised, but didn't care enough to tell him to stop.

Alfred seemed to like everything. He couldn't seem to settle on any particular station for long enough to hear more than a few lines and Peter had had to slap his hand (more than) a few times until he let it be. Unfortunately it was a station that didn't suit either's tastes.

Peter preferred anything ranging from heavy metal, to classic rock while Neal enjoyed a smoother spectrum like classical, jazz and soft rock. It seemed they did have another musical point in common; neither could stand pop. Chance would seem that Alfred had a liking for it.

"**-'cause girl you're aaamazing~**

**just the way you are!" **

Luckily for Neal, he wouldn't have to be the one to snap at the teen; after all Peter was here. From the tight grip the fed had on the steering wheel, Neal didn't think it wouldn't be long.

"**And when you smile,**

**The whole world stops and stares for a while-"**

It made absolute sense to allow the fed to get carried away with his emotions and deal with the inconvenience without making Neal get involved and possibly even show some ungentlemanly behavior (which didn't suit him in the least.) It was as traditional between the two as the prison jabs which _still _hadn't gotten old to the fed. Despite the fact the fed wasn't exactly 'in' on this one.) Then again, things had been more stressful recently. The situation itself was a rarity. Neal almost always had such control in what he showed other people, but this kid, this kid brought all the most earnest and honest reactions from Neal. He could barely hide his emotions when Alfred did something lurid. He didn't like it. Not one bit.

Then again maybe he just wasn't used to kids. (He made the distinction _kid _because he certainly behaved more like one of those than any teenager Neal had ever met.)

Locking the thoughts in the back of his mind for later contemplation, he took a quick peek at his partner through his peripheral.

Any moment now.

'**Cause girl you're amazing**

**Just the way-"**

"Alright! That's enough of that!" Peter said switching the radio off and Neal could see how hard he was trying to stay calm. Alfred continued on for a few moments before noticing the lack of accompaniment.

"Why'd ya turn off the music?" Alfred wondered with a frown.

"If you can even call it music." Neal muttered, though it seemed Alfred caught it because he stuck his tongue out at Neal.

"Isn't it so nice and quiet? I can actually hear myself think," Peter said with an overly cheery look.

"That's so boring! Turn the radio back on."

"That's probably because you obviously don't do much thinking."

Alfred rolled his eyes.

"Music helps _me_ think! Inspiration and stuff! Just 'cause you can't concentrate isn't my fault."

"My car, my rules," Peter stated, making it as simple as he could.

"That's not fair!"

"So? Have you ever heard the saying 'Life isn't fair?'"

Yes, repeatedly, from Arthur and practically every politician that ever stepped foot in the White House. He got it, he really did, but it was a stupid saying and an even stupider excuse. Just because it wasn't fair didn't mean it should be that way. It was supposed to be fair. It ought to be. It must be. Maybe it wasn't today, but one day, Alfred would make it fair. If only he could take his dispute with life's unfairness to court . . . It would have no chance against his superior prosecutor prowess!

Ah his thoughts were wandering again. That was _obviously _due to the intense amount of thoughts that flowed through his mind every millisecond. He glared at the back of Peter's head, and was pleased when the man subconsciously shuddered a little from a trickle of his killing intent.

"How long until we get there?" Neal asked.

"About fifteen minutes." Then turning his attentions to Alfred, Peter continued again.

"You can stay quiet for that long can't you?" He remarked patronizingly.

"You suck," Alfred muttered petulantly and it just made Peter smile again.

Alfred unbuckled the belt so he could lie down in the back seat. Though the buckles dug into his side and he had to curl his legs to fit, he was feeling more relaxed lying down. The refracted light from the chain of his dog tags left pale circles on the ceiling, and he pulled out the actual metal pieces to make even more 'fairy spots' as Arthur used to call them.

Back when Alfred still wore little white dresses, and Arthur was constantly at war with someone or other, the Brit had told him they were fairies.

"_Each one you catch will grant you one wish." _He still remembered that gentle smile.

He would run around the house frantically trying to catch one. Clasping his hands down on one, only to carefully open then to realize it had escaped.

It was a fond memory for Alfred, even if he berated himself for years for falling for such a stupid trick. As he aged and science took the place of magic and superstition, he realized what an idiot he was for believing in witches and fairies.

The time was WW1 and he and England were arguing. Arthur wasn't treating him like an equal and he loudly exclaimed how 'He wasn't a stupid kid who fell for dumb tricks like fairy-spots anymore.' The other man had heatedly blushed and made him aware that 'he still thought he was an idiot' and that the spots 'were of course real you dunderhead!'

Alfred had of course laughed. The Brit still thought it was funny for some reason. There was more yelling. The confusion followed denial, disbelief, second-guessing, acceptance, and finally, more laughter.

The man truly believed in the existence of those kinds of things. (And he had the gall to call Alfred a dunderhead?)

Hero's didn't exploit others weaknesses, (it was like, the first commandment of heroism,) but on occasion, when they got in a bad argument or Alfred wanted to let off steam, he would grab a flash-light and camp outside Arthur's window and watch the man chase the light until he got bored.

He never did get any wishes.

Lazily reaching upwards, he pressed his fingers to the light, almost wishing it would get pinned.

"You shouldn't sit like that; it's dangerous," Peter said, snapping him from his thoughts.

"Ugh, you sound like Alex," Alfred commented slowly lowering his hand to play with the tags idly. He did wonder how the man was. Apparently he had to escort the Prez's children to the dentist. Hopefully he didn't get bitten . . . those pearly whites weren't just pretty to look at.

"Just because you feel like challenging fate doesn't mean I do. Lord knows what Hughes would do to me if he found out," he trailed off at the end.

"I was meaning to ask, how exactly do you and Alex know each other? I mean, sure he was assigned to be your bodyguard, but you guys seemed pretty familiar." The con-man's curiosity was evident.

"Oh I suppose that's just my sparkling personality," he said with a smile before continuing. "Though, I do occasionally see him around. I do a little temp work as an assistant for someone in the White House." Of course that someone might be the President, but it would probably be better to keep that to himself for now.

"Wow, that's a pretty good job for a college kid," Peter remarked and Alfred shrugged but didn't move to correct him on the college kid thing.

"That's going to be a real hit with Mozzie." Neal commented, and it made his partner smile.

"Mozzie? What's that?" Alfred was momentarily puzzled. In his mind something wasn't clicking right. The automatic flow of information wasn't feeding into his mind like it usually did when they were talking about one of his citizens. Unless it was a dog or some foreign, non-American, (therefore non-awesome) object they were hinting at.

"You mean_ who's _that." Now there was no doubt. Alfred frowned. Perhaps he was an illegal immigrant.

"That's a pretty unusual name. Is it a nickname or somthin'?"

"No, he doesn't know what his real name is. He was an orphan you see. He pinched the name 'Mozart' from his teddy-bear, and he's been Mozzie ever since."

Alfred's eyes widened as memories and bits of information flew into his brain. It was all processed and uniformly filed away as usual within nanoseconds.

"_That's a very nice teddy-bear. What's his name?"_

The irony of Peter's previous statement was in full swing as huge masses of data flew past his mind.

Mozzie, the art theif.

Mozzie, the government-fearing.

Mozzie, the scraggly teddy-bear, squeezed too hard.

Mozzie his citizen.

Ignorant of the experience Alfred was having in the backseat, Neal and Peter continued talking.

"That reminds me, Elizabeth asked me to invite you all to dinner later tonight."

"Alfred too?"

"Of course. She's been dying to meet him; nothing I say is enough for her curiosity."

"I'm surprised she convinced you to invite Mozzie." He wasn't at all actually.

Elizabeth had Peter wrapped around her little finger and the older man didn't seem to mind in the least. He absolutely adored Elizabeth and she him. It was the kind of love usually reserved for the story-books.

It was the kind of admiration that had formed between Neal and Kate.

Sometimes he wondered if they might have eventually settled down in a quiet house, if they would have done neighborhood potlucks and Sunday dinners, _if_ their passion might have cooled into something more akin to true companionship, just spending every day enjoying the presence of the other. _If_ things might have been normal, (as normal as things could be with Mozzie as a family-friend.) These were the "_ifs_" that plagued him daily.

Of course, the initial idea of living such a life, devoid of such excitement and finger-tingling thrills that had originally led to Kate and Neal's meeting, was repulsive, even laughable. Yet, as he watched Peter and Elizabeth in their content and warm lives, (though their marriage was far from perfect,) he couldn't help but picture him and Kate in similar situations.

Were it with Kate, he thought he could do it. Without a second glance, the breathless adventures and enthralling games, which had so captivated Neal, would be discarded. Hell, he would live in the _suburbs _for Kate.

(At the same time, he doubted that he and Kate would have ever ended up like Peter and Elizabeth; it just wasn't their style.)

"Surprised me too. Do me a favor and keep an eye on him so he doesn't try anything."

"Mozzie's harmless."

"Oh _Mozzie_." Alfred clapped his hands together as if he had some kind of better understanding than a few minutes ago.

"Yeah, do you know him?" Neal asked curiously. The teen shrugged and shook his blond head.

"Well, don't be surprised if he doesn't treat you too warmly. The government makes him a little nervous."

"Don't be surprised if he starts randomly scanning you with a machine either." Peter received a light glare for that one.

"He's a friend. In fact, he's a really good guy-"

"If you can ignore the strange, weird, bizarre, and sometimes just plain creepy -"

"- once you get to know him."

"I gotcha." For whatever reason, Neal really believed that he did. Suddenly it hit the con like a ton of bricks.

'_Of course! Why didn't I think about asking Moz to use his resources to dig some stuff up on Alfred?"_ he quickly whipped his cellular out and wrote a quick text to his short friend. He wasn't particularly suspicious of Alfred, though there certainly was _something _about the kid that was, simply put, _off _about him. Not to mention that deal earlier with the pancakes. Alfred didn't strike him as a liar, but then again, he didn't know him very well, did he? What did he _really_ know about Alfred? That he had some historical lineage linking him to famous artists? That in and of itself was suspicious.

It was strange. Being with him was so simple and easy. It was as if they had known each other for a long time. There was none of that awkward atmosphere of getting to know a total stranger. Then again perhaps that was just Alfred's personality. The realization that they had only known the other for less than a day was a peculiar one. Shaking the thought from his mind, he sent the text. In any case, it was better to be safe.

There were a few moments of silence as Peter pulled up to the curb. The house stuck out amidst all the other sleek, modern apartments and penthouses. It had an aged, wrinkled look that made the walls look more like paper. A brownish-orange hue painted the outside; no doubt the result of seeing many rainy days. Chocolate beams made charming designs and crosses over each other. It felt like it was more like a gingerbread house, albeit a stale one. Left over from so many Christmas' ago, you would only unearth it because you were too harried this year to make a new one. If anyone asked, the three-year-old in the corner would be the scapegoat for the unsightliness of it. No one was suspicious of a child's 'artistic abilities.'

The gravity of the situation was finally settling into Neal's mind. They were actually taking some nineteen-year-old kid into their dangerous, high-risk job. What kind of people ran the things upstairs? They must be the ones trying to kill Alfred.

"Peter, we can't be seriously doing this," he said pulling his partner over quietly and covertly as Alfred took in the visage of the house.

"What?"

"Taking _him _in _there_. I mean, even you can agree this is crazy."

"I understand what you mean, but it's out of my hands. What do you mean by _even you?_" Peter turned from hapless to mildly accusatory. Neal didn't grant the question a response.

"I know, but couldn't we just leave him somewhere? Anywhere would be better than _here._"

"Sorry to burst your bubble, but they don't have day-care for college kids."

"Well they should. Save everyone some heartache."

"What are we whispering about?" Alfred poked his nose into their conversation, drawing himself uncomfortably close. Peter shoved his face just as fast as out as it came in.

"It's not polite to eavesdrop." Neal commented and sweat dropped as Alfred replied with a response muffled by Peter's hand.

"Mmm wafent meefebropping!" He then stuck his tongue out and Peter quickly withdrew his hand with a disgusted look.

"Ugh, lord knows where that's been." He said wiping it on his jacket as Alfred smiled.

"My mouth."

"Exactly. . . " Peter just sighed as the teen's grin stretched wider. There was no winning with Alfred.

"Let's hurry and get this taken care of," he said gesturing towards the building and they walked up the steps together to the mahogany door.

Alfred couldn't help but he a little psyched about his first experience as an official hero. Sure he was pretty much always a hero, like come on, he _was_ America after all. But unless he was fighting in a war or something, no one wanted him doing anything like law enforcement. This made no sense to Alfred. What could possibly be more dangerous in every-day-life than in war? Their sense of safe was slightly askew in that case considering a large chunk of his citizens lived their awesome lives in federal service.

Not to mention the frustrating fact that whatever Alfred seemed to do garnered an equal negative and positive reaction. He couldn't seem to make everyone happy! In here it was so simple: catch bad guy equals doing good!

Also, in case someone hadn't gotten the memo, he was America! (Most awesome country ever!) He could damn well do as he pleased! Well he _should _damn well do as he pleases, but he loved his people. He loved that they cared about him, even though he was practically invincible.

They were such strange creatures that worried about the funniest things. (Like they worried about him getting shot and stuff. How cute was that?) Then again, maybe his bosses knew something about living like this that Alfred didn't. Something entirely secret and awesomely dangerous.

"Calm down there. You're like the energizer bunny," Peter said watching Alfred bounce on his heels as Neal pulled the knocker down a few times in rapid succession. From behind the door they heard the tell-tale shuffling of someone approaching the door. The cover on the peep-hole was removed from the other side, and they started as a large blue eye filled the space. It was so magnified by the glass that they could actually make out the separate ebony eyelashes that framed it, and even see the slight blotch in the corner where her eyeliner had gotten smudged. The pale blue iris scanned them momentarily and Peter felt his spine stiffen as it reached him.

"Who are you?" A voice asked from an old rusting speaker on the wall.

"F.B.I. We're here to talk to Michael Frampton."

The unnerving gaze disappeared and was replaced by the sound of a clicking lock. Followed by the sound of another being unlatched, followed by another and then another. Their eyes zeroed in on a train of at least twenty key-holes they had somehow previously failed to notice and the older men exchanged a look. It wasn't a new look, it was the familiar, querying kind, that spoke volumes of,

"_Oh geez, what are we getting into this time . . ."_

After the lengthy process of undoing the chains and door jams in the way, the wood swung open to reveal a fairly short woman standing in the frame.

She had mid-length chestnut brown hair that waved gracefully as it fell. The light blue top and black pencil skirt complemented her eyes and her pleasing countenance was only offset by the doubtful and suspicious look on her round face. She looked youthful enough, though a few lines had formed that said otherwise, so by Neal's figuring, she was mid-thirties to early forties. A little old for his taste personally, but she certainly wasn't hard on the eyes.

Their minds were immediately drawing conclusions to who she was and why she was here. Neal personally would have gone with a more subtle approach to gathering the information, but what Peter said basically accomplished the same thing; just with less style.

"Who are you?" Peter asked curtly. She looked a little displeased at his lack of decorum, but didn't say anything about it. In fact, she bypassed the question altogether.

"Who are you?" She shot back.

"We're with the F.B.I." he said showing her the badge easily, and she took it in her grasp, peering intently at it, as though she knew what the various marks and lines meant and they would tell her of its authenticity, which most likely, was not the case.

"We were expecting you tomorrow," Peter's face narrowed at her phrasing, and Neal placed an easy-going smile on his face as he stepped forward.

"Believe me, we thought we were coming over tomorrow, too, but we got the call that we had to take care of this today, something about the paperwork . . . I hope you won't mind if we just come in and get this wrapped up really fast?" he asked false apologetically.

"I don't really think so . . ." she trailed off.

"It really won't take very long at all; we just have to ask a few questions is all." She still seemed distrustful, and Neal decided to go for the kill.

"Look, you'd be doing us a real favor, today was actually our day off so we picked up his son to take him out for a movie, but we got the call on the way. . ." he trailed off glancing back at the newly, father-son pair. Peter's smile was so tight that it looked painful and Neal could tell he was fighting his better instincts to hit Neal or maybe scream a few obscenities.

He glanced over at Alfred, sure that he would need a hint to play along. That was, if he had any inkling to what they were doing (or if he remembered where they were for that matter.) When he saw the sullen and moody look on his normally bright and smiling face Neal could barely contain his surprise.

"I don't care," Alfred muttered surly.

"Look, maybe we can still make it, if not we'll just go tomorrow, okay, Sport?" The last word Peter almost choked on, but he was more experienced than that. He delivered it with just the right mix of desperate parent and weary man. Peter had been through lessons and seminars all about good improvisation, and this was just par for the course. (More particularly, he wasn't about to be upstaged by some teen half his age, not that he cared about that or anything . . .) Peter had always been one to perform well under pressure. Even when his partner was being an idiot. (Especially when his partner was being an idiot.)

"Whatever. I don't even know why I agreed to come out with you, I should have known better." Dear lord, Neal couldn't have written it better himself. The world had lost a great actor the day Alfred decided to be some assistant. Neal almost couldn't take it when he glared angrily at the floor and mumbled in perfect timing,

"I already know what you care about most. You and your stupid job." Maybe he was wrong about Alfred.

"Why not just stab me in the heart? It'd be less pai-" Wrong. He was definitely wrong about being wrong about Alfred. Neal casually slapped a hand over the melodramatic teen that evidently was getting too into this.

"I understand you're hurt about this Alfred, but don't you think you're getting a little too upset?" Blue eyes turned to meet his own.

"But Uncle Neal, it's just- it's just that ever since mom died, it feels like all he really cares about anymore is . . ." He jerked to a stop and bowed his head, ashamed and embarrassed. Perhaps he had spoken too soon. The delivery was beautiful and the trailing off followed by guiltily looking away was a sincere touch.

"I know kiddo."

There was a moment's pause. Peter looked burnt out and despairing at the state of his "son's" thinking. Neal was helpless between the two of them, wishing he could do more, yet not knowing what. Alfred wouldn't meet anyone's eyes looking away with equal part embarrassment and frustration.

"What time does your movie start?" She asked, and there looked to be slight signs of tears gathering in the corners of her eyes. Neal couldn't contain his smile as he answered and she invited them in and hoped that it looked more relieved than gleeful at the perfect execution of his plan.

"Oh! Where are my manners!" Neal jumped as if he suddenly remembered something.

"My name is Neal Caffery and I do consulting work for the F.B.I, this is my partner, Peter Burke, and his son Alfred. I don't think I quite caught your name."

The smile on his face was so disarming that he could have charmed the Mafia to lay down their arms and start a non-violence campaign.

"I'm Charlie Lewis; it's a pleasure to meet you."

Her tone was airy as she was easily dazzled by Neal's smile, but that was the farthest thing from their minds right now. Whatever they were expecting her to say, it wasn't that.

"Wait Charlie Lewis?" Peter did a double-take. His mind had supplied a much different image. One with a handlebar mustache. Neal's thoughts were along a similar avenue, though replacing the facial hair with a no-nonsense suit and small reading spectacles. (The accountants he'd known certainly didn't look like this, perhaps it was only at her company, and if that was the case he might need to get her business card to visit her at work sometime . . .) One thing remained synonymous in their presuppositions about the appearance of Charlie Lewis, and that, would be her being decidedly male. Alfred who had known the whole time, just smiled as she began to laugh.

"I know. My name sounds like it belongs to a guy, huh?" Neither could exactly say 'no' so they did the most polite thing by saying nothing at all.

They waited patiently as she went about the lengthy process of setting-up all the locks again before continuing down a musty hallway lined with many paintings and photographs. It was eerily dark and it took a moment for Neal to recognize why. Each window was closed off with dark velvet curtains that blocked even the smallest vestiges of sunlight. Even the few beams that might've escaped through stray cracks were all but halted by the extreme measures, such as duct tape or thumbtacks. It felt like night in here. The only things that lit the dark halls that ended in pitch black were a trail of lamps. Some sat on wooden stands, and others attached to the walls, guiding them to an unknown endpoint.

"I can't believe you just did that." Peter said quietly as he walked beside Neal.

"I know, even I have to say it was pretty brilliant, though Alfred's acting really pulled the whole plan togeth-" He received a swift elbow to the chest when she wasn't looking.

"I'm calling OSHA." He complained.

"I'm calling the nearest jail for drop-off." Neal rolled his eyes.

"Would you have preferred if I had told her he was our love-child?" Peter just glared.

"Is that cookies I smell?" Alfred asked softly and she nodded hesitantly.

"I just made a few batches for some of the neighbors." Alfred's smile became soft and sad.

"Ah, my mom always used to make cookies, couldn't go anywhere in the house without smelling it . . ."

"Why don't you have a few? I always end up making too many." She assured him hastily and the older men just stared deadpanned as Alfred not-so-discreetly flashed them a thumbs-up behind her back.

"Did you catch that?" Peter asked dropping his tone even further so that Neal had to strain to catch the words.

"What?"

"She's said 'we' twice, as though she was here often. Perhaps the reasons for these visits are more than just business."

"I was just thinking the same thing."

With their new information on Charlie, more avenues and ulterior motives were springing up like flowers in bloom.

Finally, they arrived at a small drawing room. Sitting there, almost as a ghost of the house, was Michael Frampton. His features were lit by a tall lampshade and it left discontenting shadows across the side of his face bereft of light. He had a long and slightly pointed nose that lie below two hazel eyes framed by pallid lashes. Slight lips were pressed in a prim line and it was becoming evident how unhappy he was with their presence. He was inconsolably skinny. It made the trio glad that the windows were shut and the drapes taped in, for it felt the slightest breeze would snap him. His skin was white. Too white. So pale it seemed translucent.

"Why are they here?" He asked. His face became lit with some color, and Neal wasn't sure if it was from anger or embarrassment at being caught with visitors in his pajamas and bath-robe.

What followed was a quick string of introductions, much as before. The home-owners expression never faltered, even when they shook hands and engulfed his emancipated appendage within their own. (It was both a relief and surprise when it didn't shatter or turn to dust.)

"What are you doing here?" He asked, and Charlie sat down beside him and said in a placating manner,

"Remember, they want to talk about those Dutch bonds." Michael turned and leveled her with a flat look.

"I've gathered as much. My real question is why are they here _today?_ Weren't they supposed to come tomorrow?_"_

"Oh that's true, but it wasn't their fault. You see, they had some problems with the paperwork so they had to come today." Her cheerful face wavered and her brow furrowed as she realized that it was a very thin story when spread out like that.

"I see. Trying to get the jump on us in case we were hiding anything, hmm?" Peter quickly shook his head and opened his mouth to refute the claim but Michael cut him off.

"No no, I suppose I can understand; these are the kind of underhanded tricks that one should expect when dealing with the government." Alfred bristled, but said nothing. The first amendment was one that he was truly proud of, and he would defend it until his last breath and beyond. If someone didn't like something, it was their right, no, _responsibility_ to say so. Even if they were totally dissing him. (Even if it did kind of definitely hurt his feelings.)

"It doesn't matter anyways. Look all you like, you will never find anything condemning in this house."

"Good. That certainly makes it easier for us. Could we ask for a tour so we can get out of here as soon as possible?" Peter asked putting on an air of boredom. Michael nodded and rose from the dusty couch.

"Let's go through the upstairs first, shall we?" He invited, as he led them through the halls, Charlie on their heels, Peter and Neal exchanged looks; the game was on. They had until the tour was over to find out as much information as possible. The simplest way, since they weren't allowed to dismantle his bookshelves and search through all his things, (not without a warrant) would be to make Michael reveal any incriminating evidence himself.

There was one such path that promised such swift and sure results that it seemed laughable not to use it. Subtle manipulation. It was so perfectly ingenious and impossibly adaptable, that it was easily applicable in every occasion. In their line of work it was a duty that came with the badge and title. Fortunately enough, it was an activity that Peter relished and was uncommonly adept at.

Nowadays, people applied for a job at the bureau, showing off their psychology degrees and thesis papers on the finer points of "The Delusion and Dream in Jensen's Gradiva." Though it might help them, it was no match for something so finely tuned within the essence of someone; a natural born hunch of superstitious proportions, an innate knowledge of the human condition and the basic instincts of what they _must_ be thinking. Peter was such a person to posses these qualities. And ply them well, he did indeed.

The fastest way to make someone else trip up was to make them angry. That too, Peter was pretty skilled at. Michael Frampton was not an average Joe. In fact he had shown himself a shrewd man who dissected their motives within seconds of meeting them. He was pleased with what he had done, however fleeting it had been, and the jabs at the government showed Peter that he took more stock in what he thought than the national government. (Not all that uncommon a view.) These were perfect signs of a vain personality, with someone who puts total faith in intellectual thinking. The way he talked to Charlie, even in such a short conversation was another signal that he at least thought himself better than her, if only on a subconscious level. So, methods to make narcissistic, intellectuals upset. The quickest, cleanest ways were pointing out things they might find as a shortcoming, or perhaps a few well placed comments showing ignorance, and even flitting jabs at something they held precious.

While she was still a suspect, Peter would rather not embarrass Charlie—who, among knowledge and Dutch antiquities, was the only other thing Michael seemed to value—in some quest to make the man upset. (Despite his condescending tone, it was evident that he cared for her, how much had yet to be shown. . .) Hopefully, they would find what needed finding before they had to delve too deeply into the mind and lives of Charlie and Michael.

They ascended up a staircase that was a musty, burgundy red. Like a guest of some ancient party had spilt a bottle of Granche and the maid had never cleaned it. It had rolled across the carpet, seeping deep into the fibers, collecting memories and dust as it remained ever the same, a lingering testament to a time half-forgotten.

"This is one of the guest bedroom." he said in a sweeping gesture. Peter walked in casually looking at the dim room with blatant disinterest.

"Nice place you got here."

Neal gave a concealed smile as his partner winked at him. Oh, Neal knew what to do.

The good cop bad cop routine. One strokes the ego, while the other simultaneously cuts it down with his ignorance. For a while they play until the subject feels he has an understanding of their characters; of who is an equal to him and who is a disgrace. Eventually they pull a swap, knocking the subject off kilter. For this to work, the one who appreciates the art must play a submissive role. He submits to the seemingly stupider mans ideals and passes off his knowledge as nothing more than worthless information. Then, they have him. Men like this can never seem to overcome the idea of information being wasted or ignored when their live are based on those theories. They need everyone to recognize how truly important it was universally.

So far, Michael fit the profile like a glove, but they could shift easily into another plan as they learned more from him.

This was their game and they lived for it.

"I must say, I find this architecture fascinating. Dutch Baroque if I am not mistaken." Neal slipped smoothly in a quieter excitement. He made his tall and elegant stature appear a few feet shorter, and even hunched his proud shoulders, making him look thin and squirrely. His air and behavior somehow became more unconfident and slightly fidgety; it was eerie when compared to Neal's normally suave and silky manner. Neal glanced at Alfred, hoping he wouldn't have to nudge the kid to let him know not say anything, then again, after their little performance downstairs he wasn't sure if he had too. (Next time they were making sure to brief Alfred – no matter how small a job it was —so they wouldn't have to worry about this kind of thing. He dearly needed to know the golden rule; don't _ever _talk, unless spoken to first.)

The blonds brow was furrowed as if deep in thought and Neal wasn't able to make eye-contact, so he turned his attentions back to Michael whose eyes were lit with excitement.

"Exactly so! Do you have an interest in architecture?"

"Oh no, not as much as I should like, but it's very important in paintings of the time, and that's where my true passion lies." The thin man looked absolutely delighted.

"Oh, I'll bet it does." Peter mumbled from the corner and Neal covertly cast him a smirk.

"It's a true rarity nowadays to find someone concerned with the arts."

"I know what you mean. It feels like no one really has an understanding anymore. Hopefully more people will start caring like we do."

"Let's hope not." The fed stated aloud, eyes glittering with double meaning, "This stuffs great and all but it's pretty much just ancient history, you know? Live in the present, and all that jazz." He flippantly tapered off making Neal's expression glow in subtle amusement.

"Oh Peter, you know, history is what makes us who we are today. Without it, we couldn't exist." He smiled good naturedly in an understanding way and Michael was looking at him with approval.

"Neal, you oughta get your head out of those books sometimes. You'll never find yourself a good woman if you keep up like that!" he exclaimed boisterously and while the pale man's pleased look faltered, Neal's took on a slightly dimmed down tone.

"I suppose my luck hasn't been very good lately."

Anyone less professional would have collapsed laughing by now.

"Exactly my point!" he slapped Neal hard on the back a few times, jolting him and nearly making him loose balance in his diminished posture.

"If you're not careful, you might end up alone in a house with cats or with some silly little trinkets."

Michael's face was flooding with color again as Peter cavalierly fingered the rim of one of the vases. It could have been the original _Savoy Vase_ for all Peter knew, and it didn't matter, because Peter was treating it like one you found in Wal-Mart buried in the clearance bin next to a plastic, zebra striped lamp.

"I would appreciate if you would keep your oily fingers off of my priceless antiques!" A vein was bulging prominently and they knew they landed both jabs. As if sensing she was needed, Charlie arrived promptly at his side and offered a few calming words that neither of them caught. Whatever she had said stymied the tide of rising rage. At least for the moment. They would be back to work on it within minutes. The tense air was quickly cut down as Alfred piped in, startling Michael and Charlie who had forgotten his presence.

"Where's 'Dutch' again?" He asked, eyebrows drawn close together in deep bemusement. Before someone could answer he started again,

"Is it that one place with the ice?"

Michael stared stupidly at the teen. "Are you talking about _Antarctica_?" he asked in both shock and dismay.

"No, I don't think that's right, because Antarctica isn't a country; it's a continent that encapsulates the South Pole." There was an unsaid '_uh duh!' _that obviously was sent to the history intellectual. He followed his almost impressive statement about the large continent by furthering his description of the country he was thinking of.

"It's like got water by it and penguins I think." Antarctica was on the tip of Michael's tongue but he held it there, teetering on the edge of total irritation with his idiotic guests.

"Oh and they have volcanoes that explode like, **Pshhhbwwwwwoooooooshhhhhh**!" He said making sound effects and gestures every which way.

" . . . Iceland?" Michael asked reluctantly.

"Yeah, yeah! That's the one!" he said happily and the other man waited patiently for him to make the connection. When he didn't he rubbed the bridge of his nose tiredly.

"'_The one place with the ice_,' is Iceland, not '_Dutch_,' and the penguins you were referring to, were puffins I think." he explained and Alfred nodded his head eagerly, mouth in a little 'o' of apparent understanding.

"That one scary guy!"

"No!"

Meanwhile, Neal and Peter were watching this with the utmost pleasure and mirth as Charlie hovered around Michael looking harried as the familiar vein bulged into life again.

"It's like he was made to annoy people!" Peter rubbed his hands together gleefully. Perhaps working with Alfred wouldn't be quite as arduous a task as it first seemed. They could just sick him on their suspects.

"I never thought that was a worthwhile skill. He could put it on his application; Best annoyer ever."

" . . . Do you think he's being serious?"

"I honestly don't know. . . . Dear God, I hope not."

They exchanged glances, before heading to business.

"So far they don't seem to be hiding anything."

"We haven't seen the printers yet." Peter pointed out.

"That's true, but I'm not getting a bad vibe from him. Maybe there really isn't anything here."

Peter frowned.

"I mean there really was a very small chance of finding anything here in the first place. Hughes just getting some random tip from an old buddy, this is obviously just a favor we're doing for him by checking it out. Those bonds were in perfect condition, and clearly authenticated. They might be real." Neal said.

"I'm not getting a bad vibe necessarily, but I'm getting something. I'm willing to drag this tour out as long as it takes to find it."

Neal let out a soft sigh.

"Alright, but I don't know how long I can keep up this act. It's practically painful."

"Don't worry you're doing fine."

"You too. Though I'm sure you're just living out your fantasy of having kids through Alfred. What's it like?" Neal smirked sarcastically.

"Shut up."

Charlie was rushing them all out into the next room, all the while trying to divert the increasingly frustrating conversation. Well, frustrating for Michael; Alfred was looking as oblivious as ever.

"Okay, so if that's Iceland, then where is Dutch?"

"Dutch isn't a country! It's an ethnicity and area mainly focused around the Netherlands!"

Peter was surprised he hadn't ripped out any of his hair yet.

"Say, where's the Netherlands? Is it anywhere close to m- America?"

"No, it's by Belgium and Germany in Western Europe!"

"Ohhhh." Alfred was silent for a few moments.

"That's cool. . . . Where's Europe again?" The look he received was so blank, that it might've been mistaken as an empty sheet of printer paper. Below the surface of that paper was a very powerful ocean of emotions that was roiling and boiling to the point that entire cruise-liners would be sunk within a few moments. His face was creepily calm as he turned towards Peter and asked him without blinking,

"Have you ever enrolled your son in school, Mr. Burke?" Peter smiled thinly and nodded. It seemed that while Michael had seen past the initial layers of their deceit, he hadn't been able to place why they would bring someone like Alfred with them, so he had accepted the original explanation. That meant Peter got to play proud parent to Alfred. Whoopee.

"Oh yeah, Alfred does real good in school, don't you?" Somehow he managed to make himself sound stupider with each passing sentence. Alfred nodded to the question with a brimming idiotic smile.

Peter was really beginning to pity his actual father.

"He's on varsity and we expect him to go pretty far. You know college football and all that."

"I'm sure he'll do you proud." Michael said with a tinge of distaste in his tone.

"It's good that you both like that; I was beginning to think you didn't get along very well." Charlie said with unassuming brightness. It seemed she hadn't forgotten their last production.

"Well, when it comes to football, I'm happy to say we're playing for the same team." The words were so corny and cliché in his mouth that he almost wanted to vomit, just to remove the imaginary taste that lingered there. Instead Peter just received Alfred's high-five with the best smile he could muster, which was more of a grimace to anyone who knew him, and a crinkled smile to those who didn't.

So far, it had seemed, they had gotten him pretty riled up already, but a few more stabs at his agoraphobia would only serve to make him more upset and disoriented. Despite their efforts, nothing definitive had been found, unless you counted nothing as a finding. Peter's gut was telling him otherwise. They most certainly were hiding something, and Peter wouldn't be able to rest easy until they had found it. With ignorance checked off the list he decided that playing on his agoraphobia, while disconcerting, was the quickest way.

Peter wandered over to the window and carelessly began to pick at some of the tape that held the drape flush to the wall. Michael was too preoccupied trying to better explain the Netherlands to Alfred to notice what Peter was doing. It wasn't until a few streaks of light shot out and caught him by surprise, making him yelp before whipping around to Peter.

"What are you doing?" He demanded, stalking over and smoothing the tape back down in its proper place.

"Just wanted to look outside." He received a shaky glower.

"Mr. Frampton? We heard you were an agoraphobic, but we had no idea you were a heliophobic. Or are you an eosophobic? Or perhaps you're just photophobic. I jus—oh , gosh, I'm sorry; I probably sound like an idiot." Neal jumped around topics concernedly, no doubt scoring him more points with Michael with both his knowledge and his desire to be correct. What an idiot.

"No, no, not at all." he assured Neal gently, "Thank you for your concern, but I'm not any of those." He took in a shuddering breath before turning back to the fed.

"Don't touch the windows." He shot one more withering look at Peter before waking straight out of the room. They stared after him blankly for a few moments, until Charlie approached them.

"You probably didn't mean anything by it, but don't try opening the windows anymore; he doesn't like to see the outside," she explained before following after him. The pair exchanged looks. This spoke volumes to them about the inner workings of Michael Frampton. At the same time, they were both feeling moderately guilty for what they had knowingly done. What if Michael actually had a melt down? Or what if he actually did have one of those phobias?

Their job was unpredictable at the best of times and often, procuring what they needed took more than they would have liked it to. But, cheesy as it may have sounded, somebody had to do it.

Neal gave Peter an understanding glance before heading out the door. He had expected Alfred to say something, like,

'_Woah, low blow.'_

'_What are you even doing?'_ Or even a,

'_Dick-move, man.'_

For how strange would this be to watch after seeing Peter so normally composed before? (They needed to have a long talk after this.) Instead he gave him an unreadable expression, that Peter felt he could have spent decades trying to decipher.

Then again, perhaps Alfred just thought he actually _was_ a stupid jerk.

When they arrived at the next room, Michael had considerably calmed down. Yet, the process of going through however many rooms that were left was mentally exhausting at best. Though they had no real choice in the matter, but to persevere and pray the end would come soon.

They rinsed and repeated with each new, yet similar, room of the house. Slight jabs, which just toed the thin, delicate line, of what could be construed as being offending enough to be reported, were delivered in cadence. There never was a crime in stupidity; not a reportable one in any case. Though the chance of an uncomplimentary folder landing on Hughes' desk was looking better every minute. Strangely enough, it seemed to have a direct relationship with the darkening hue of the home-owners face.

Alfred was at the point of complaining with an "Are we there yet?" that would no doubt be _well_ received, when they entered the basement where the antique printing presses were located. The dark, dingy air clung to them like a second skin, the cold tinge settling into their bodies and seeping into their veins. If ever was there a place for immoral, illegal behavior, this surely was it.

The upper layers of the house, though badly lit, were looking warmer and brighter with each step they descended into the basement, through comparison.

There was a sense, just tingling on the very tips of Peter's fingers that told him something was hidden here. He felt the thrill just beginning to take hold.

The party arrived at the bottom and Michael drew his bath robe in a flourish that almost made the silly garment look regal.

"These are the antique presses, which you no doubt already know of. You can see for yourself that they haven't been used recently." He seemed a little miffed when the two investigators leapt at the chance and began squinting and searching for any sign of a lie or a truth.

The machines themselves were wooden and crotchety looking. Their age was undoubtedly authentic and, if possible, they somehow looked even _older_ than the few hundred years that were automatically granted.

"Oh my, is this an authentic Gutenberg screw press?" Neal asked with an abnormally, geeky, fascination. Mr. Frampton just glowed with happiness.

"It is indeed. These two are my pride and joy."

"Ehh, what's so cool about a screwy press?" Peter snorted. While he didn't actually know, he was flamboyantly flashing his disregard for such knowledge in a way that would normally have even gotten on his nerves. He noted, with a smile, a distinct twitch in Neal's finger, which might have been the cause of some irritation.

"Oh, Peter, it's not a 'screwy' press. It's a 'screw' press." The buoyant nature of the response was so ditzy and forgiving it made Neal sick to say. But in this house, he was a shy, unconfident and downright cheerful.

Hopefully they would be leaving this house soon.

"It was originally used for pressing grapes for wine and olive oil seeds, but Gutenberg modified it to be used as a printing press; though very little was printed on them except for books and pamphlets."

"And a few Dutch bonds I suppose." Peter inferred to which Neal nodded.

"It wasn't common to print bonds, which is why these are so particular. Especially on these machines. They were originally just normal screw presses that he modified before he came upon his own inspired design. " He quirked his head to glance at the plates which held lines of dull grey letters firmly in place. His practiced eye ran over the shapes of the letters and even the points where they were more worn down.

He pulled back and moved close to Peter before speaking very softly, his lips barely moving so not to alert their two suspects. (Not that is was likely they would notice, as Alfred had once more demanded their attention with some silly comment.)

"This isn't the right font. This is Gaelic and we're looking for Garamond."

"So we need to fin-" He cut his sentence short and looked back at his partner with a quirking smile.

"You really know the fonts?" He laughed a few times as Neal gave him a flat look.

"Peter, I'm an international art thief, with all the bonds I've nicked and counterfeited, it would be more of a surprise if I didn't know my fonts." The smile dropped quickly from Peter's face.

"Wait, what bonds specifically?"

"You're right we shouldn't get off topic. We need to find what other templates he has."

"No seriously Neal, what bon—"

"Mr. Frampton, I don't suppose you have another typesetting for these do you?" He asked with a fake smile. The other man frowned at him for probably the first time since their entrance.

"Yes, but I keep them in my private library." The two partners discretely exchanged glances.

"When exactly, were you going to show us this library?" Peter asked making the other man flush. He probably wasn't going to mention it at all from that response. Neal rolled his eyes inconspicuously and formed his face into one of gently understanding.

"Mr. Frampton, we can't clear your house until we see all of the rooms. I'm sorry to be so obtrusive, but perhaps we could just take a quick look." His expression was hopeful and the Frampton's resolve crumbled like a cookie in the rain.

"I suppose the sooner we can finish this the better. . ." He turned slowly and led them back up two-flights of stairs to the top floor.

The library was a small, cluttered room hidden in an easily overlooked corner of the house. Books were stacked into towers that threatened collapse should a single stray paper be disturbed. And there were a lot of drifting papers poking out from every angle, shuffled in books and crammed in desk drawers. Tall mahogany shelves held volumes upon volumes of text. Neal felt he could get lost here for a few years.

"This certainly is an amazing collection," he complimented peering closely at a few volumes on the shelves. Michael opened his mouth to respond but was beat to the punch.

"I dunno. I think its kinda lame," Alfred threw out and Neal shot him a warning look.

"You're probably too young to appreciate this, but one day-" (In a few thousand years or so) "-you'll learn how fascinating these things are," Michael nodded in agreement and Alfred just sniffed.

It was far too European for his taste. He was in no way jealous that, despite his false way of showing it, Neal was entirely enthralled by the collection. That would be stupid and childish. (Especially since he had enough awesome books and library's to fill the sun, and that was definitely cooler than this, cause the sun was like more than, fourteen septillion cubic meters. . . . "Suck that Dutchland!" So He really had no reason to be jealous.)

"Whatever," he shrugged his shoulders. Neal sent him an odd look but proceeded to talk about some of the more rare volumes. They eventually settled on a few of the couches, forcing the other members of their party, who were excluded from the conversation to awkwardly follow.

"Why don't I bring a few refreshments?" Charlie offered after several minutes of this. Michael blinked from his thoughts and seemed to finally realize that everyone was still there.

"Yeah that sounds nice," he said distractedly, and she rose to leave. Peter inwardly scrambled to come up with some excuse to keep her here where they could monitor what she was doing, but was passed up by Alfred who rose with her and complained in a whiny voice that he never got those cookies she promised him.

"Alfred, that's not very gentlemanlike. Why don't you go with her, and then you can help her bring it all up?" Peter said in a gruff parental tone.

"Sure thing, pop!" he said eagerly and followed her out.

Neal shot Peter a look that was skeptical at best, but Peter just shrugged, seeming to say, '_Better than nothing.' _

"Where were we again, Mr. Frampton?" Neal politely enquired as Peter let out a long sigh, fully prepared to be bored to death.

"Please, call me Michael, and I believe we were discussing _De Humani Corporis Fab__rica_ and its effect on the time period." Peter let his head fall on the desk.

He followed her down the steps into the kitchen they had visited a little earlier. They really just peered through the doorway before moving on but now he entered and stared interestedly at the obviously renovated space.

"I didn't know they had toasters in the 1600's," he remarked and she laughed. The sound was so sweet and light, the atmosphere automatically became very relaxed and any awkwardness from before was dispelled like it was nothing but bad memories.

"Despite the fact Michael thought he functioned fine with an authentic kitchen from way back then, there's no way I ever could."

Alfred nodded in agreement. She peered about the room with a pleased expression. There were traces of her touch, little decorations and flowers, which were devoid in the other areas of the house they had seen so far. Despite the fact the windows were still all shut, and the fake light was relatively dim, this room felt so much warmer and open.

"I'm glad to say that I've brought a little of modern times to this house. Somehow I even managed to convince him to stop wearing his ruffled collars and donate most of them to a museum." She said the last part as though it was a secret and Alfred chuckled. He could easily picture the home-owner strutting about the house wearing the ridiculous collars.

He watched her swing the fridge open and search for something. '_Iced-tea'_ his mind supplied. '_Michael drinks 4-6 glasses a day to help with his blood pressure. The information came from an article he found on the internet, the website was-'_ He pulled himself away from the trailing knowledge, which would, if allowed, keep going, spirally into less and less relevant topics.

"You guys seem pretty close."

"We've been working together for quite a long time." She said.

"Get along pretty well."

"Similar goals." Sidestepping the question again.

"Ya sure you guys don't have something more going on?" Alfred asked pouring his good-intentions and innocent airs into his words.

She seemed a little startled by the bluntness of the question and turned slowly to face him. She regarded him blankly for a long moment.

"What makes you say that?"

"Well, besides the fact you're here all the time and are making cookies at his house-"

"Only because my oven was broken," she lied. Alfred gave her a look that clearly conveyed he didn't believe her.

"It's apparent to even me how much you care about him," he smiled when instead of becoming defensive and making up excuses, she laughed and grinned.

"Well, I suppose you're more observant than I gave you credit for." Charlie placed a small napkin with cookies in front of him and he took a happy bite. Her smile faded into something found in a black-and-white photograph.

"Though, just because I feel one way doesn't mean he also does," she spoke acceptance.

"I think he cares. I think he cares a lot."

"That's sweet of you to say, but I don't think-"

"I do," he chopped off her denial with such conviction that she was momentarily taken aback.

She looked carefully at the boy who sat in her kitchen. She viewed the gaudy shutter-shades that were clasped on his shirt and the sophisticated fedora that looked extremely out of place. Then her eyes fell on his. A serious deep-blue that was filled with so much of _everything_ that it seemed indescribable, and a million images flashed in her head as his eyes calmly met her own pale irises. The feelings and thoughts beneath them seemed insurmountable and she had the immediate desire to look away, but at the same time she was so enraptured that there was no way on this earth she _could_ even if she wanted to.

There was light there. Shining brightly. It shifted and morphed around, so that she could never pin down one particular spark in his gaze.

Alfred was a good kid, she decided. It really was a pity.

"I don't get it," he said slowly shaking his head and she was torn from her thoughts.

"Uh, what, honey?" It slipped out, but she didn't regret it, and he didn't say anything.

"You're so much more interesting and smart right now than you are with him. Why is that?" he asked and she sighed.

"I'm not smart. People like Michael and maybe your dad's friend are smart," she said, pulling the milk from the fridge. "I am of decidedly average intelligence and am perfectly fine with that."

"Why are you demeaning yourself?"

"I'm not. I'm accepting the facts. It's actually very comforting to know that there are smarter people out there, like Michael."

"But you're not stupid."

"That doesn't mean I'm smart."

"Except you _are." _he said so assuredly and she rolled her eyes as he began again. "Can't you both be smart?"

"Someone needs to appreciate his brilliance for what it is. I can't do that if I'm constantly comparing our intelligence's."

"So it's for Michael," she nodded and pulled a cup off the shelf.

"Always. I'm not as smart as he is, and I think he's come to accept that fact, and even slightly care for me despite my apparent stupidity. At work, it's always people expecting me to do their things, and solve all of their financial woes, but I'm not wonder woman. I'm just your average accountant. Michael doesn't want anything from me. He even takes time to explain things. You should see the look in his eyes when he talks about his passion. It's like-" She faltered, trying to find the words to correctly convey her feelings.

"It's like looking into the sun. It's so bright. The moment it happened, I knew that there wasn't anywhere I'd rather be than in the sun's glare."

Alfred said nothing for a moment.

"So you hid away in the dark with him. You just wanted to have a piece of his world, while you ignored the one outside, am I right?" There was no accusation in his tone but she flushed anyways.

"I don't think it's hiding necessarily . . ." she offered him the milk and put the remainder in the fridge.

"Thanks," he said as she sipped delicately on her iced-tea and peered up at him through her long black lashes.

"You're welcome." He swilled it a little and took a big gulp.

Then he proceeded to spit as much of it out as he could.

"Ugh! I think your milks gone a little south." He said with a look of pure disgust on his face. 'A little south' was putting it mildly. He was eighty percent sure he got a few chunks in that. His stomach was threatening to surrender his lunch and breakfast, and his head became dizzy with nausea.

"Oh. Sorry about that, I hadn't noticed the date," she said watching him blankly.

He blinked a few times blearily, his mind not computing the information it was registering.

"You're lying. But why would you lie about the date?" he asked sluggishly. Her eyes became cold and he plunged forward and read the errant thought as it zipped across her mind.

"You poisoned me!" He jerked up and that was a decidedly bad idea. He staggered a little before leaning heavily on the counter, his vision blurring.

"It won't be long now before they notice that the font is missing. It never was about the presses. . . " she trailed off ignoring what he said.

His vision swum and there was an acute drumming in his skull something akin to an earthquake. His arm gave out from underneath him making him lose his battle with gravity, and he landed hard on his stomach. The pain failed to register; though he felt a strange pressure that told him he may have landed on his keys. He turned his head to look at his citizen who stared at him with eyes as arctic as snow. He took one last desperate dive into her mind and his eyes widened, as dark spots began forming.

"You don't have to do this, there are other ways. . ."

"If I ever have kids, I hope they have the same light in their eyes that you have."  
>Alfred took one last glance at the poor, beautiful, woman above him before the spots convened and filled the gaps of his vision. He drifted into sub-consciousness, and was lost to the world.<p>

* * *

><p><strong>OMAKE!<strong>

"Well, when it comes to football, I'm happy to say we're playing for the same team." The words were so corny and cliché in his mouth that he almost wanted to vomit, just to remove the imaginary taste that lingered there. Instead Peter just received Alfred's high-five with the best smile he could muster, which was more of a grimace to anyone who knew him, and a crinkled smile to those who didn't.

Upon impact of the high-five, Peter was accosted by feelings and memories that weren't his own. The feeling was like being slammed in the face with a peanut butter cornucopia. Rockets surely were launching somewhere. The world was exploding into a million pictures. All his hidden patriotism was swelling up as he heard echoes of truths.

One image rose above the rest. Gradually the glare of the glow it emitted faded enough for Peter to make out the image before him.

He blanched.

Was that Alfred . . . riding a bear while skydiving? Bursts of colors and gunpowder were exploding behind him. One arm was raised in a defiant 'rock on sign' and the other held what appeared to be an oversized plastic soda sup. Airplanes painted trails of white through the depthless blue sky as they passed overhead. The bear was growling as the air whipped around it fur and within one paw he held an America flag, (despite the fact he didn't have opposable thumbs.)

Alfred opened his mouth slowly.

Surely to reveal the unknown secrets of the world.

"Fuck yeah BEARS!"

Just as swiftly it started, the moment ended. An eternity had passed during the half-second their skin had been in contact.

Alfred stared at him blankly for a moment as if gauging what Peter's reaction would be.

He then gave a face-shattering grin and gave Peter a thumbs-up.

The older man stared a moment before shaking his head and sighing.

"_No, Alfred . . . . just . . . _. _no."_

* * *

><p>Yeah, I made fun of myself for what I did a few chapters ago with the hug. THIS is probably what it would be like to high-five America.<p>

The picture I've described is a legit drawing that I found and loved by **Dreamsraven** on deviantart and it's called "F+ck yeah, BEARS"

It's awesome you should check it out.

Please **RE****view?**

All my info on the Netherlands and presses came from Wiki by the way.


	6. A Day where Fire Really is the Solution

Wow. So, it has definitely been a while. Because **I have such awesome amazing readers**, this chapter is the longest thing I have ever written. Like, thirty-six pages.

It's all for you wonderful people who read, and doubly to those who review!~ (I really hope I don't disappoint you . . .)

This chapter is a little bit more **angsty** than the other ones, but it deals with important things, and I'm trying to make this as realistic as possible. The **next **chapter should be something that is very light and cheerful, but for now, we delve back into the dark enclosed manor of Michael Frampton and Charlie Lewis.

The reason why it is so long, is because I said to myself, "This arch, is only going to be like two chapters long." So I did succeed though it got a little on the long side. . . .

Anyways, I have been absolutely obsessed with Sherlock BBC, so that shares some blame.

I was listening to Florence + the Machines' "Cosmic Love" on repeat with "Do Better" by say anything. I do not own these songs.

So much love to my beautiful Beta** Kanae Valentine** for doing a rush job for me so it is wonderful!~

**I do not own anything.**

I hope you all enjoy it despite my rambling authors note. . . . I'm actually very worried.

(P.S. This is one of my favorite quotes!~)

* * *

><p>"<em>Let each person do his or her part. If one citizen is unwilling to participate, all of us are going to suffer. For the American idea, though it is shared by all of us, is realized in each one of us." ~<em>_**Barbara Jordan**_

* * *

><p>Peter was considering what his chances were for survival if he jumped out the window. Surely if Neal could do it, he could too. (The fact the younger man had landed in an awning was one of the little details that Peter wasn't particularly inclined to think about.) Even if he landed badly and broke a few bones, there was still a good chance he could limp to his car and drive away.<p>

This train of miserable (and fairly disturbing) thoughts had started somewhere between the Siege of Candia and _King James Bible. _It wasn't wholly unfounded as they kept yammering on.

It was a little interesting, Peter supposed, seeing how much his partner really knew. There was no denying that Neal was smart, but his was getting pretty ridiculous.

At the same time it was also a little assuring to Peter, whom had outsmarted such a smart guy. (On more than one occasion.)

Checking his watch, he frowned when he realized they had been talking for about a half an hour.

'_Where did Alfred and Charlie wander off to?_'

Inwardly, he was a little nervous. He realized that it probably wasn't the best idea to send their charge with a potential suspect, but he was already pretty sure that it was Michael. Keeping this room a secret was damn suspicious behavior in Peter's book.

He rolled his neck and exhaled when he heard a satisfying pop.

Peter really just wanted today to end. He wanted to be home. He could already see the moment he steps foot in the doorway. He would place his briefcase down. His nice jacket would slowly be stripped. He could hear his dog's clumsy yet happy, bounding steps draw ever closer, betraying the inevitable pounce. He would hear his wife's clear tone echo from the walls as she greeted him from the other room. Dinner would already be set up on the table. Delicious scents would encase him. The television would be on and his basketball team would be winning. He would breeze past the delectable food. The television would yearn for his presence, but be denied. He would sweep his wife into the hug of her life.

He wanted to hold her and forget the outside world.

Staring at Michael, he imagined this might be how the other man felt. It was becoming more and more apparent that the other man essentially lived his whole life within this house. He didn't seem the type to be bothered by the goings on of others and considered the lack of ANY technology it was likely he didn't give a damn about the international matters either.

His world was within this house.

At first, Peter couldn't picture it. Just thinking about it, he felt the walls close in on him as the air constricted. Mentally, he wasn't any better off. The boredom alone would be enough to topple structures and blow up continents. That would probably be the effect of the first couple months, but with years! Lord! Peter didn't really want to consider it.

As is feeling Peter's stare, the pale man's eyes flickered away from Neal to Peter.

This man probably hadn't seen the sky in ten years.

A wave of sympathy washed through Peter, pulling all the other feelings through the drain as it went.

Damn. He was going as soft as Neal.

"Something the matter agent Burke?" Michael arched a brow in question.

Reluctantly settling back into his role, he turned to him with a very bored look drawn across his face.

"Yeah. When exactly are we going to see these fonts?" He said pushing his impatience to see his wife into his voice.

The other man rolled his eyes and sighed, as though Peter was a child and Peter felt some of the familiar annoyance trickle back. This guy was ridiculous!

"I suppose our discussion will have to be put on hold for a while."

"I look forward to resuming our little chat." Neal said with a charming smile.

As Michael moved over towards a few of his multiple piles he tossed over his shoulder,

"You boys are in luck, for you see, I actually have a copy of one of the Dutch bonds that you can look at in person Neal."

Peter felt a little miffed he was being so blatantly ignored, but let it slide for now. With a bond added to the equation, the level of probability was rising gastronomically.

As the other man turned around to rummage through some of the miscellaneous stacks Neal stepped back towards Peter.

"Please tell me we're leaving soon." He pleaded quietly. Peter smirked and looked at his companion.

"What? So soon? I thought you liked this guy."

"Not enough to carry on another conversation like the last one."

"But Neal! We haven't heard what stones they used to stub their toes on in ye olden days." Peter remarked sarcastically. Neal rubbed his eyes.

Agreeing with each and every thing that Michael said, whilst simultaneously making it appear that he was absolutely enthralled by the other man, (and yet not too enthralled for that would tip him off,) was a taxing business. He was trying to come on strong while not really coming on strong, it was a precarious perch and damn near an oxymoron.

It was arduous work at best.

"Who knew brown-nosing was so tiring?"

His comment made Peter snort back a few chuckles and hide them as a sudden coughing fit when Michael turned around curiously. Once Peter felt sure the older man was totally engrossed in his search once more, he shot his friend a toothy smile.

"It's hard charming people when you're not being you."

"It's because my personality is so charming that it works on everyone."

"Remember the black widow?"

"Oh, I'm sorry it doesn't attract serial killers like yours does."

"Ah, fair enough."

They stared at each other for a few moments before moving onto more pressing matters.

"Where do you think Charlie and Alfred went?"

"I was wondering that, too," Peter replied with a frown.

"Well perhaps we wouldn't have to worry about this if you hadn't sent our charge into the unknown with a possible suspect." Neal pointed out.

Peter felt himself bristle defensively. It wasn't like it was his fault. He had acted on instinct. Neal needed to stay here so Peter could keep Michael agreeable and helpful. Peter had to be here to watch Michael so he didn't hide anything and Neal also so he wouldn't get a little light handed with the hundreds of antiques _literally_ lying around. Logical conclusion: send Alfred with Charlie.

Besides, Charlie was pretty much harmless, unless she hurt herself through absentmindedness. (Her and Alfred seemed kindred spirits in that respect.)

"I'm sure they're fine. They probably got each other lost or locked in a room together. Either way I bet they have plenty to talk about," Peter said, brushing it off with a smile.

Neal opened his mouth to retort, but never got the chance because Michael let out a startling growl that made the both of them jump with surprise.

"Where did that damn box go?" he demanded, but for all appearances' sake, he seemed to be talking to himself. The other men exchanged concerned looks; ten years was a very long time to be inside a house.

"What does it look like, Mr. Frampton? Perhaps we could help you look for it," Neal suggested slipping back into his eager persona. Peter shot him a suspicious scowl, obviously doubtful of the pure intentions of his offer. Neal did his best to look innocent, while inwardly feeling a little affronted.

He wasn't _that_ single-minded. . . Though, when opportunity arrived on his stoop, he wasn't one to turn her away.

Ignorant of the undercurrent of thoughts and motives swirling about him, Michael's eyes flashed and took a predatory gleam.

He approached the base of one of the stacks and carefully inspected a wooden box that looked just about ready to collapse.

"It looks like this!"

To their horror he gave a tug on the box.

"Mr. Frampton don't pull-"

The equation for the force of gravity is the mass of the affected object multiplied by the acceleration due to gravity. With gravity standing at a stable- 9.8 meters per second squared, the logical thing to do would be to multiply this by the mass of ten college level textbooks, four encyclopedias, eleven biographies, seven art books, three dictionaries, an unknown number of scattered papers and one wooden box.

The resulting crash was heard throughout the neighborhood.

Neal and Peter looked shocked and partly amused that he had actually done something so obviously stupid, but they rushed forward to check to see if he was injured, tripping over books and paper as they went.

Michael was sitting on the ground with a stunned look on his face, as though he couldn't believe it had actually fallen down. Peter had to turn away to hide a few irrepressible snickers.

"Mr. Frampton, are you okay?" Neal asked worriedly as he pulled a few books off the other man, while fighting a smile. The effect left him looking rather constipated.

The older man seemed to recover himself because he accepted Neal's hand and got himself off the ground. He brushed off the thin sheen of dust left from the fall. It created a small, brown dust cloud as he did which soon sent him into a fit of coughing and sneezing.

Neal wasn't sure he could handle any more; this man was just ridiculous. Tears were forming in the corner of his eyes, and Peter was now laughing audibly.

"Something wrong Neal?" Michael asked concernedly, "You look like your tearing up."

Neal summoned the last traces of his resolve and stared Michael straight in the eye.

"I was just so concerned that you got hurt . . . I couldn't help it." He laced his words with so much care and fake concern that he could practically feel his teeth rotting.

In the back, Peter choked on his laughter. There was no way that Michael would believe that crap! He would be more concerned, but at the moment that just made it even more hysterically funny!

Michael looked concernedly at Peter who was turned away with his shoulders still shaking with repressed laughter, and then to Neal whose face was turning a little red with the effort it took to remain stable. The pale man shook his head. People had gotten weird since he'd been in his house.

He carefully pulled the wooden cover off the box.

"Oh, this isn't it," he said frowning and Peter collapsed in the back.

* * *

><p>Charlie walked down the dark musty hallway with only the clicking of her pumps to accompany her. Her steps were slow and carefully measured. The musty air was all-encompassing, and she ghosted along her pathway with only the artificial light of the lamps to guide her. Ignoring the eyes of the pictures that hovered on the walls around her, she got steadily closer and closer to the staircase. As she approached one thing grew steadily more apparent.<p>

Her life, as she knew it, would forever change.

From this, there was no going back.

She halted in front of the stairs, indecision tearing at her heart.

Charlie almost wanted to stay there. She wanted to sit on the bottom stair forever if possible. If the world would just stop turning for a while, so she could sit in the dark. Within this house that had come to symbolize the man she loved, she would spend an eternity sitting.

Still hesitating, the reflection in a dusty mirror caught her eye.

There was a woman standing there. She held a silver tray in one hand, drinks precariously balanced atop. The hollows of her eyes were deep and dark and the blue was more like the subterranean places of the ocean then the sky-blue she remembered. Her hair was mussed and resembled something more akin to a rat's nest.

Choicely disregarding the hauntingly disconcerting look in her eyes, she placed the tray on a nearby stand and moved her hands to fix it.

"This won't do," she murmured to herself.

She knew she was procrastinating, but didn't really care at the moment. Breathing. She just needed a moment to breath.

In a way, she was surprised with herself and how calmly she was managing things. What she had done to the boy was terrible enough. Hopefully she could persuade them to leave the house without having to resort to more desperate measures. At least she had gotten the boy out of the way, so in worst case scenario, he would be without a parent.

Every hair was in place; there was no putting this off for any longer. She picked up the sterling dish and stepped carefully on the stairs. Each step up resounded loudly in her head.

There was nothing left for her to do except hope for the best and wish.

And she only had one wish.

"Please don't change."

The burgundy carpet was the only witness. The static existence mocked her as the light from behind the door guided her.

"Don't look at me any different."

She opened the door, and stepped into the light.

"Michael."

* * *

><p>"Dear lord Agent Burke, <em>what are<em> you doing on the floor?"

Peter felt the humor drain away, and get replaced by a dreaded feeling of embarrassment. Scrambling up from the papers, he noticed his partner chuckling in the corner. Swearing revenge at a later time, his mind was racing for an excuse.

"Sorry slipped on some papers. God, is there even a floor under all this junk?" He asked making himself seem flustered and defensive. It wasn't so much of an act; Michael did seem to bring out the ugly qualities of Peter. Even more so now as the other man sighed and shook his head, like Peter was beyond help.

"_Try_ to be careful, some of these are very important documents." He said looking disdainfully at Peter.

"If they are so important, why're they on the ground?"

The childish note snuck in Peter's tone despite his efforts.

"They would still be organized if you hadn't messed with them and ruined my system!"

"Your sys- Are you kidding me?" Peter asked, looking at Michael as though he was losing it. The other man flushed but choicely decided to ignore the blatant fact that not only was his den a mess, but it hadn't seen any form of organization system in years.

Now ignoring Peter, Michael turned to Neal.

"Which system do you prefer to organize your library? I myself like the dewy decimal system, yet when all my books are so centered along one category; it's hard to order them sometimes!" He took great pleasure in the irritation he felt radiating off Peter.

Peter swelled up in some repressed rage, and opened his mouth to probably say something else unprofessional, when Neal shot him a fierce glance and he deflated almost immediately. The subtext was screaming loud and clear to Peter; Neal had reached his limit at this point, so it was move it or he would lose it.

Turning to Michael with an equal mixture of annoyance, exasperation and weariness, he suggested they move the search along. Michal seemed a little put-out that he hadn't gotten the desired reaction from Peter, but agreed. They searched in silence for a few moments before Michael erupted in annoyance again.

"Ahg! Where is that damned box!"

"If we knew, we would already be long gon,." Peter assured him irritably while gathering some papers that littered the ground like a deep snow.

"There's nothing more than I would like than that," the home-owner grumbled as he carelessly pushed over a few more stacks, maybe not-so-accidently covering the ground by Peter's feet with even more papers.

The older two men sat glaring at each other for a few moments before Neal broke in,

"I'm glad the two of you agree on something!" Neal said with false cheer and received two very dead-panned expressions for his trouble.

"Right, so where do you think you might've left it?" Neal asked, plowing forward.

"If I knew that don't you think I would've found it already?"

"Of course, of course," Neal said quelling the other man's frustration with his calming words before he continued in a soft, easy-going manner.

"Just try and think back to where you last saw them. Are you sure it was this room?" Neal asked, and Michael frowned and closed his eyes in deep thought.

"I just can't re-"

"No, just think; think back to when you last saw it," Neal said softly.

While Neal was coaching the other man, the cogs behind Peter's mind were rapidly turning, fueled by suspicion.

"_Does he really not remember or is he not finding them on purpose?"_

Peter was carefully weighing the motives. He could claim that he had no idea where the typesets were and apologize before sending them on their way. Without an actual warrant to operate on, there really wasn't much they could do without tipping Michael off that this wasn't being entirely backed by the government.

There was another viable option, though it would be considerably more complex.

Michael could be buying time.

What he could be buying time for, Peter didn't know, but with such a drawn out search a lot could be accomplished. Charlie was somewhere else in the house, and Peter felt a sharp jolt of icy fear flash though his nerves. Wherever she was, Alfred was also supposed to be. He would never tell Neal, but he was beginning to think he had made the wrong call sending Alfred with her. (Despite all the flawless logic backing him up.)

"I can't remember," Michael said frustrated, interrupting Peter's trail of suspicions. Peter's eyes narrowed and he decided to make his move.

"Oh really? What a shocker. I'm beginning to think that they aren't even in this room!" Peter brashly declared. Michael turned towards him slowly with a challenging glint in his eyes.

"Are you calling me a liar?"

Neal stepped back and watched the two men, following exactly what Peter was trying to do here.

"Maybe I am. All I'm saying is that for someone supposedly so smart, you seem to be having an awfully hard time keeping track of your stuff."

"You've never misplaced something then Mr. Burke? Because that's what you seem to be saying." Michael scoffed.

"Yeah, I do lose things all the time, but then again, I don't spend all of my time shut-in-"

"Be quiet, Agent Burke!"

"-with only my precious little trinkets and books to keep me company-"

"That is quite enough!"'

"-and some woman who only hangs around because she pities me-"

"WILL YOU SHUT UP!"

Peter finally snapped his jaw shut. In the middle of the room, Michael stood panting. The fact he kept pulling at his hair only aggravated it even more, making it stand on end in a style reminiscent of a stereotypical crazy-person. The disarray of papers arranged on the floor only served to make him seem even more unstable. Face red, he walked close to Peter until they were closer than either was particularly comfortable with.

"Agent Burke, you can poke as much fun as you want at the fact I'm an agoraphobic. I understand that I live an unusual life, and people like you think it's funny and weird and twisted and that it's fine to treat me like a freak of nature, because to you, I am one. I'm used to such things." His tone was incomparably even as he spoke, and Peter was feeling a wave of intense guilt settle into him. Neither of the feds had time to say anything for the other man moved on, capturing Peter's eyes and didn't let them go as he ghosted even closer to the fed.

"Torment me for being different all you like, but never call me a liar. Truth is one of the only things that keep men from devolving into scum, and if you ever question Charlie's honor, you may find yourself locked in one of these rooms for a while Agent Burke. She is a woman of true integrity."

Not an easily swayed man, Peter raised an eyebrow.

"Was that a threat Mr. Frampton?"

"No, Agent Burke, but I reserve the right to protect the things that are most precious to-" He cut off suddenly and fell silent. The sudden silence was such a contrast to the echoing fury from moments before that the other two men were subconsciously unnerved.

"Mr. Frampton?" Peter hesitantly approached Michael whose form was bent in a sign of deep thinking. He tentatively put his hand on the other man's shoulder and shook lightly.

"Mr. Framp-"

"I got it!" he yelled and shot up, managing to knock Peter in the face when he shot up.

"Owww! Damnit! What was that for?" Peter said angrily rubbing his face. Damn that man was bony!

"I deserve to be latched in the pillory, for such an obvious oversight is practically a crime!" Michael exclaimed, ignoring the fact that neither of the men understood his fairly obscure reference to punishments. He waded through the mass of papers and books before he reached the area behind his desk. Neal noticed him glance at the large photograph sitting on the desk and give a little smile.

"Did you remember where it is?" Neal asked curiously, while Peter was still grumbling and massaging his cheek.

"Not really," he said in a non-committal tone. Neal sweat-dropped, though the other man continued fumbling around the back.

"But, where would you keep your precious things if you wanted them to be safe?"

"Swiss Banks," Neal said without a second thought, and proceeded to avert his eyes when Peter's honed in on him and he quickly amended his statement.

"Hypothetically of course."

His response elicited a small chuckle from Michael.

"Of course. Yes, that would be the best place. Though suppose you're the kind of person who doesn't like to leave the house very often to get what you need," he said making a slight joke on himself.

"A safe," Neal said, lighting up with realization. Peter's eyes promised there'd be discussion later, but for the moment he set himself on the task at hand. The two watched the other man run his finger-tips underneath the decorative molding of the desk until he found what he was looking for.

"Aha!" he exclaimed as he found the little switch beneath the desk and pressed.

The wood creaked loudly as it moved and it banged sharply as it caught the back of the bookcase beside it. The bottom part swung open to reveal a medium sized safe with a six-digit electronic passcode. Neal was already deciphering the company brand and calculating what probabilities there were for the passcode. Peter promptly cuffed him over the head.

"Stop it," he ordered gruffly.

"Stop what? Breathing? Because that was all I was doing," he said defensively. The fed's eyes narrowed again.

"I know what you were thinking."

"Peter' there's no way you could possibly know what I was thinking," he said incredulously. Was he really that predictable?

The other man shot him what could only be described as "a look."

"Oh, I know."

"You're imagining things in your old age," Neal said shaking his head.

Peter just smiled, knowing he was right.

"Sure Neal. Sure."

His smile widened when he heard the safe open, the loud beeping of the numbers followed by a short series of beeps, and Neal groaned inwardly. He hadn't been thinking quickly enough this round, and now, the safe was already open, and he wasn't even paying any attention. He maybe could've gotten a number or two. (It wasn't that he had anything planned, but that kind of information was always good to have, just in case opportunity arrived on the scene.) Peter won this round, but there would be plenty more to come in their line of business.

Giving his partner a saccharine smile, Peter stepped closer to see what he could inside the safe and Neal copied.

It seemed as scattered and messy as the office was, inside the safe. There were copious amounts of papers and aging books tucked in every which corners. Paintings, no doubt authentic ones, were stacked haphazardly on the shelf, and Neal's mouth went dry at the poor treating. Had they not had the protective glass encasing them, they would have no doubt been ruined. His fingers were twitching, but one glance from Peter and he pretended to be fascinated with the surplus of ruffled collars that were peeking out of every available crack. Neal almost wanted to ask why there were so many ruffled collars, but by the end decided he was better off not knowing.

Finally, on the highest and most inaccessible shelf, there were a few layers of ochre colored wooden boxes. Michael smiled in satisfaction. He reached his long arms up and pulled one of the stacks down and opened the top lid carefully.

Neal peeked over the box and frowned. Michael's expression mirrored his, Peter, just glanced at them and then at the box of square metal letters.

"I'm guessing this isn't it?" he asked. Instead of answering him, Michael just pulled another box on top. This one was also a dud. Michael's eyes flashed with irritation and pulled the rest of the boxes down with a clatter and began ripping the lids off with fervor. The framed documents and painting also gave no answer save for on:; wrong!

Neal and Peter exchanged looks as every box was a dead-end. Neither the font nor the bond was here. The raised an eyebrow and the message was relayed clearly to his partner.

"_What do you want to do now?"_

Michael was hunched over the boxes, his brow wrinkled in confusion. A few letter lay scatter on the table and the floor from when they were tossed out of the box by his hurried motions.

Peter took a deep breath and leaned over to be on the same eye level as Michael. The ball was in his court.

"I don't understand. They were all supposed to be together in the safe! The bond is missing too!" Michael exclaimed, his voice laced with bemusement. Suddenly, as though realizing the way this situation would appear he snapped his eyes to Peter, for the first time in a manner of anxiety and fear.

"I swear! I thought they were going to be in here! I'm not trying to trick you or anything. They were supposed to- I mean. . . " he trailed off. It seems that some of the wind had left his sails and he was left in a state of uncertainty as the control he had over the situation had slipped from underneath his feet.

Peter wasn't sure if he was telling the truth or not, though there was a distinct pulling on his naval that told him it was. Gut instinct wouldn't hold up in cases though. His confusion seemed genuine, so perhaps it was someone else. That person would logically be . . .

He needed more data before he jumped to conclusions.

"Look Mr. Frampton, we aren't accusing you of anything right now, let's just focus on trying to find where they might have gone," Peter said in a calm voice. At The other man's slow nod, he pushed forward.

"Alright, so is there any chance that perhaps it's in a different part of the house?" Peter suggested and Michael violently shook his head.

"No, no, no! I never moved them from the safe!" he said frantically. His control of the situation was rapidly spinning out of control, and he didn't like it one bit. He felt like he was stranded in the ocean, with no land in sight. It was so much, so big, he was paddling to stay above the water but it still felt like he was drowning.

"Mr. Frampton? Michael! C'mon, I need your help," Peter said snapping his fingers in front of the other man's face. Michael came back to himself. Noticing he seemed more aware, Peter moved forward.

"Is there anyone else who knows about the safe, or that the fonts were in there?" Neal asked this time, and Michael started to shake his head again.

"No, I was the only-" He cuts off again and here was a look of growing horror in his eyes.

"Who had access Mr. Frampton?" Peter pushed, though inwardly he knew the answer.

"Charlie." His voice cracked and he repeated himself once more. It was as though speaking had become some laborious task.

"Charlie knew they were in here and even what the passcode was. She helped me inventory my artifacts last fall."

Before anyone could say anything more, the door swung open.

"Hope you all like iced tea!"

The three men froze.

* * *

><p>Cold, grey concrete greeted America from his slumber. Face down; he laid on the unsympathetic rock.<p>

He felt air re-expand his lungs and his heart pick up its steady beat once more.

He ignored the feelings.

Instead he focused his vision on the unremarkable, barely discernible pattern in the concrete. The edges were barely raised enough to give it any form, but little lines and slight dots appeared if you looked close enough.

Sighing, he pulled the key away from his now sore thigh. It seemed she hadn't put all that much care in moving his body. He almost wanted to leave the painful object there; he deserved the dull throbbing it offered.

He had failed.

But, at the same time, he had heard a rumor that sometimes, veterans felt the physical pain a country felt in their healed wounds. It would ache, like the country did. He didn't know if it was true, but he wasn't going to risk adding any pain if he could avoid it; especially not for them.

He lifted his sore, aching leg enough to slide his fingers in the pockets of his jeans and moved the oddly shaped object. His mission accomplished, he moved back, staring so intently at the concrete that he wouldn't be surprised if it turned into molten lava-rock.

Letting out a sigh of self-loathing, he set his head on the imperfect surface.

Nothing about today had gone as it was supposed to.

When he had first seen Charlie, the facts had come swirling up like a fountain. He went to try and talk her out of it; he hadn't been quick enough to see that she was going to poison him.

God, had he failed her.

He felt that he finally understood why his bosses never approved him to do police service of any kind. It was too much. It hurt too much. He punched the floor, and a spider web of cracks appeared but he paid it no mind, he just wanted some release.

Charlie Lewis, who was born January 19th, 1971.

Whose first pet was a cocker spaniel and the death of which still makes her sad.

Who felt glad when she made people happy.

Who wanted to be a singer when she grew up.

Whose first boyfriend had given her a ring of flowers and a blushing kiss.

Whose second boyfriend had taken advantage of her.

Who smelled of iced tea.

Who was afraid of gaining weight.

Who wanted to have a big family.

Who still fights with her mother over her choice to be an accountant.

Who thought spider webs were threaded sunlight, and bubbles were magic.

Who broke her leg climbing a tree when she was eleven.

Who wanted to shut the rest of the world away.

Who loved Michael Frampton.

America felt her burning. He could trace her life back to the delivery room. He could trace her blood back to the Italian immigrants that had come to him all those years ago.

Her presence was within him, and made him.

What she was doing, knowingly, was like a stab to the kidneys.

Suddenly, it all felt too real to him. The nerves in his body were lit with electricity and every curve and rough ridge of the concrete was known to him. The cracks he himself had formed were even more poignant.

The room felt smaller. The matching concrete walls were slowly sliding closer to him, the ceiling becoming a conclave slab, edging nearer with each breath, gradually engineering his end. It was as though the room was collapsing around him.

The still-lingering taste of spoilt milk became more acidic and the urge to either throw up, or burn his tongue off, became prevalent.

The sight of the concrete was slowly being burned into his retinas. The array of it would stay as a painful reminder of this time.

Within his mind, and his heart echoed the same question;

"Why?"

The real kicker was that he _knew_.

It was love; something that was supposed to be so pure and unique was the source of his betrayal.

She had thrown his laws and morals to the wind without much thought, because, to her, they were nothing compared to Michael.

He felt the sting of her betrayal acutely, and it was reflected in the aching of his body.

In comics and movies the evil guy was always just that; an evil dude that needed to be taken down for the betterment of the rest of the world. They were one-dimensional characters shaped with a single purpose in mind; take-over metropolis, stop Superman and rule the world. The purpose varied, but not much.

They were sincerely twisted guys.

It was only logical that there needed to be a seriously good guy to combat such evil people.

Eventually, stories had evolved to show the more humane side of the evil characters, trying to get audiences to relate. America had watched the transition into more realistic storylines as it slowly occurred.

To him, it didn't matter.

Just because they had a sad back-story didn't change anything. They were still trying to do something dastardly and twisted and it was still the hero's job to stop them. When he was reading these stories fantasizing, the situation had been so delightfully uncomplicated. It was still black and white to him.

In real life, things are rarely ever so simple and clean.

He had imagined this scenario with a pink tinted lens. Catch the bad guy and be the hero. It was logical to him and he had wished the whole word worked so simply.

Instead, here he was struggling in a web of greys.

There was a burning within his heart.

He'd been so naïve, so stupid. He could practically hear England berating him for being such a "dunderhead."

But he hadn't known it would hurt this much. He hadn't known caring for someone who had gone against him and needed to be brought to justice would leave him stinging.

And he did still love her.

He loved her all the same.

Suddenly, as if admitting the fact had relieved the weight, his body folded in on itself. He was momentarily swept away by a feeling of immense fatigue that deadened his nerves and extinguished the electric fire that had started.

He lay there on the dirty concrete with a blank mind for an unnumbered amount of time.

Finally, he knew it was time. Taking one last calm breath within him, he exhaled and pushed as much tension out with it that he could.

Slowly he got to his feet, feeling the strength flow back into his limbs. Words, strength-giving words, poured back into his mind, easing his weary heart.

_Grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change,_

Light was settling within his irises once more and he approached the door with steady and determined steps.

_Courage to change the things I can,_

It was locked and he felt a smirk possess his face and he proceeded to rip the door off its hinges with what he considered a gentle tug.

_And the wisdom to know the difference._

Neal and Peter needed his help right now, it wasn't the time to mourn; it was the time to save everyone.

The time for action.

It was time to be a hero.

* * *

><p>Peter wasn't sure how the situation had gotten out of hand so quickly. Probably somewhere between the point where he'd been dubbed Alfred's father, and the repressed laughing fits. He rubbed a hand across his face tiredly. Now they were in this mess.<p>

Charlie seemed to sense the mood in the room and the smile fell off her face and she looked at Michael questioningly.

"Michael, what's going on?" She asked with such an unassuming air, that Michael felt his heart would break. The tone was the same she always would ask him questions with.

"_Won't you walk with me? Even if it's just through the house. . ."_

"_Michael what's this for? It looks like a big mo-"_

"_-was Phillip the second super important at the ti-"_

"_-eleven is prime after all, so why would-"_

"_Michael why is the sky bl-"_

"_-help clean? Can I?"_

"_Michael?"_

For once, Michael didn't have the answer.

"Ms. Lewis, we'd like to ask you a few questions if you don't mind," Neal said shooting Michael a look of sympathy.

She gave them a slightly curious smile as she sat down. She set the gleaming tray on the small table before her.

"Of course. Would you like any iced tea?" she offered them, raising a glass. Their silence was answer enough. Ignoring this fact, she placed two clear cups in front of the Feds, and an old, obviously well-used olive-green mug in front of Michael. Setting down the drinks with small clicks that echoed loudly through the silent room, she smiled to herself before then crossing her legs and addressing them.

"Ask away gentleman."

"Where is Alfred, Ms. Lewis?" Peter asked, more than a little unnerved by his absence.

"Poor boy fell asleep after I gave him some warm milk. I set him up in the guest room. He looked like he could use some sleep."

Her tone was a motherly coo, but that did nothing to ease Neal's and Peter's nerves.

Neal stood to go check if it was true, but before reaching the door was cut off by Charlie.

"I doubt you'll find him alone Mr. Caffery. It's an awfully big house. I also turned off some of the lamps to save some electricity, so it wouldn't do to stumble around the dark. Besides, a boy like that needs his sleep or else he'll never grow."

She kept her tone light and as innocent as she could manage.

Neal's hand hovered on the doorknob, and he turned back to Charlie with a calculating look. She wasn't as dumb as she appeared.

"You aren't trying to keep us from him on purpose, are you?" Peter asked with a fake smile.

"No, not at all. Though I would like to know what is going on."

"Could you show us to Alfred first?"

"My mind is a little muddled right now with what's going on, I don't think I remember where he is. Perhaps if we cleared this up a little bit?" Cold smiles were exchanged, but it was Peter who folded first. He shook his head slightly at Neal who stepped away from the door and sank in the couch next to Peter. Tension was coiled tightly in their bellies but there wasn't much they could do at the moment.

"Charlie, what are you-" Michael asked, speaking for the first time since his realization.

"Nothing! I didn't know letting boys sleep was a crime nowadays!"

She seemed a little huffy and Peter just sighed but proceeded.

"Ms. Lewis, we have reason to believe that one of you may be forging bonds and fencing them illegally." She didn't say anything so Peter pushed forward a little more.

"We know from looking at the printing machines that they haven't been used in years and Michael, as you know is an agoraphobic, and displays some fairly anti-social tendency's which makes him forging the bonds at a separate location and fencing them marginally less likely. However if there was someone else who could help with this . . . Do you see where I'm going with this?"

Michael shot him a curiously affronted look, unsure if Peter was accusing him of accessory to forgery or just playing Charlie. Unfortunately, Peter didn't know yet either. Charlie may have been able to do it on her own, but Michael never would have been able with his condition. Their connection seemed legit, (though they themselves seemed to be ignorant of the fact,) and Peter had seen enough love-struck law-breakers to know that it was entirely possible. It was an easily conceivable idea that Michael was supplying her with the means and she handled the leg-work. The only sure point was that they were either in cahoots together, or Charlie was running this little outfit herself and Michael was just her unsuspecting boyfriend. One thing was sure, Charlie was involved somehow, and that is where Peter decided to apply the pressure and see what buckled.

"Sure I do, but what makes you think we have anything to do with it in the first place? I'm just an accountant and Michael hasn't left the house in years."

He smiled in a convincing manner.

"We're investigating every place where the correct fonts and papers might be. This house is one of the only places where both could easily be found thus making it doubly more likely."

"Is that so?"

"Yes."

She appeared to be quite taken with the idea, and they were immersed in a short silence consisting of her staring off daydreaming in the opposite direction. Peter cleared his throat. It seemed that the implied question wasn't implied heavily enough and he put it within clear words.

"Ms. Lewis, do you know anything about the illegal printing or fencing of such documents?"

She snapped from her daydreaming.

"Hm? Oh, no, I don't know anything."

There was an exchange of gentle nudges and skeptical eyebrow raises though the room. The general rustling of clothing filled the silence

"Would we be correct in assuming that you have access to every item in Michael's house, including the items hidden, like say, in the safe? Am I correct in this thinking?"

Inwardly she froze. They couldn't have figured it out could they have?

She pretended to think for a moment, before nodding her head slowly.

"Yeah, I think so. From when I helped him inventory his things!" she replied, knowing that lying was a fruitless pursuit. It seemed that Michael had already opened up to them. How much they knew, she didn't know.

Peter indulged her act with a smile.

"Did you give the location and passcode of the safe to anyone else?"

"No."

"Are you sure you don't know anything about the bonds?" he asked, and she swallowed loudly but didn't say anything. Her aquiline eyes wouldn't meet his piercing gaze and instead set firmly atop the burgundy carpet. Perhaps if she wished hard enough, it would reach up and swallow her.

"Are you aware that the font and the bond are missing, Ms. Lewis?"

His smile was that of a leopard before its prey. He stood up and circled her lone cushioned chair. It was a mind trick, each time he would make his circle a little smaller giving her the intense feeling of claustrophobia and of being cornered. Neal picked up his partners train of thoughts, knowing a little more on the subject.

"Essentially, if someone had the correct paper, which is certainly abundant around here," Neal gestured about the messy room, "and gained access to a printing press, then technically all they would need is the font, the type that would leave the specific kind of lettering that would only be found in this time period." He paused and thought in a mocking manner.

"Mr. Frampton, is it true that you possess a genuine font from the time period?"

The man seemed taken aback at such a change in the other from the mild-mannered man he was before. The time for games were over; there was no good-cop bad-cop. Still captured by the revelations of the past few minutes, Michael could only nod mutely.

"Thank you, yes, perhaps you didn't know exactly how rare these fonts are Ms. Lewis."

From the look on her face, it was easy to see she didn't.

"There are only a total of twenty copies still around in the world today."

The deer-in-the-headlights look said it all.

"Of those, sixteen are in museums. That leaves a total of four in the possession of collectors and private owners. Only one copy resides in America."

The circle Peter was tracing got smaller and she was beginning to feel panic.

"It really is a true wonder you have one Michael."

He complimented good-naturedly.

"I'd love to take a look at them another time once we've found th-"

"Neal!"

"Right, moving on. Say Peter, seeing how they own the original copy that the bonds were compared to, doesn't it seem remarkably likely that they could have used it to make a more precise copy?" Her eyes were shut like she was willfully trying to ignore what was going on outside of her lids. Peter took back the reigns.

"Why, yes Neal! I do suppose you could! How peculiar that both the font and bond have gone missing. Hmm that would make the most likely suspect people who have access to both of them. Like you and Mr. Frampton."

"Taking his condition into consideration, you are the only one who had access to the safe who could viably fence these, or find someone else to fence these."

He stopped and regarded her for one more moment. Realizing he had stopped his pacing her eyes snapped open.

"I will ask you once more, do you know anything about the bonds Ms. Lewis?"

"Where is your proof?" she counteracted.

"Don't you think that might be what we are here to find?" He answered her easily with a smile. Seeing the look on her face he continued.

"Is there anything you want to say, miss? Perhaps some crimes you'd like to admit to? I'm really all ears for you. My wife tells me I'm a great listener." The smirk upon his face was irrepressible. Things were going swimmingly. Hopefully she would admit to her crimes so they would have just cause to arrest her and bring her in for questioning.

Once more, she held her silence.

Luckily for him, he really didn't mind waiting.

Seconds ticked by into minutes and minutes into an hour without as much as a whisper coming from her. Peter was beginning to get impatient, not that he let it show. In fact, a rather disconcerting smile was firmly set upon his face. It had been there the entire session and was leaving his already sore cheeks even sorer. In the other chair Michael seemed lost within his own thoughts and Peter felt a pang of sadness. Poor man. His whole life must be falling apart. Beside him Neal was tapping his finger in time with a rhythm only he could hear. Across from all of them sat Charlie. Though she was statuesque in her posture, a different feeling could be found from one look into her eyes. She seemed to be weighing something heavily in her thoughts. With a keen sharpening of her gaze, it seemed she had reached a realization.

She turned to Peter in absolute amazement.

"You know, there was something that was bothering me, and I think I finally realized what it was." Her voice echoed loud as thunder through the quiet room.

Peter gave her a measured look.

"What was that?"

"Why I'm still sitting here."

Her smile was downright malicious, like that of a hunter who had finally captured their prize.

"What do you mean?"

"Why haven't you taken me downtown yet? Especially when you so blatantly have decided that it was I who committed the crime? Instead of following correct procedure, you decided to try and interview me here. Why is that?"

Peter was cursing furiously within his mind.

"I think that you don't know that they are forgeries at all! I want to see your warranty!" She held her palm out towards them in a mocking way, and Peter remained steeled.

She began laughing.

"I'm right, aren't I? You came here in the hope of finding something incriminating in plain sight that you could use in courts!"

Michael looked gob smacked and tore his eyes from Charlie to Peter in a disbelieving way.

Taking a calming breath, Peter set the same too-sweet smile on his face and took on an amused scolding tone.

"I think you've been watching too much television Ms. Lewis."

"Nice try, but I'm afraid that I do know what I'm talking about! My last boyfriend was a convicted felon of larceny and counterfeiting. I was there the day they took him away, and it's not something I easily forgot." Her grin took a startlingly dark turn and her tone was self-deprecating, but still, she laughed on.

"I'm afraid you have no power here! Not that you could do anything here in the first place." She seemed to find it terribly funny and Peter felt the thread falling apart in his fingers. Now that they knew he didn't have any power, all of his actions were meaningless and Michael could, and from looking at his expression, would, be able to ask them to leave the house. Then if he was convinced, the any incriminating information would be blessedly ignored. Without proof, all they had were some half-baked theories, that wouldn't amount to anything in courts.

Goddamn! He had been so close too! A cuss fell freely from his lips against his will, but at this point, Peter really couldn't care less.

"Mr. Burke! Is this true?" Michael asked angrily, shooting a furious glance at the man. Another curse dropped from Peter's lips, and the tide surely wasn't far behind it.

"I trusted you! The only reason I let you into my house was because I thought this was a legitimate police investigation!"

"I don't recall ever saying that." Peter sniffed and the other red-faced man jumped up in righteous fury.

"Well, I had the right to know! You government types-"

"Oh, it's come back to that has it?"

Fingers steepled, Neal ignored the spectacle before him. They had to be missing something. There was always something. He had more experiences with the law than most people and he knew the usual tricks for dancing around it. Doing the opposite and trying to find a trick to _ensure_ the law was enforced wasn't something he was particularly used to. It was like trying to walk backwards while rubbing your tummy and patting your head.

He tried to picture himself in this situation. Supposing that he had figured out that Peter didn't have the government backing him, (which of course, Neal WOULD . . . probably in less time too,) what would the fed do next.

_Find a just cause._

But where could he find one?

_Where would he find it?_

Where it would be.

_With the items where-ever they were._

What would she do with them?

_She would probably keep them at the safe house, though she probably meant to bring them ba-_

Deep blue eyes flashed open.

"No! We aren't done! Not yet anyways!" he announced and Charlie turned towards him with an amused look, full of self-assurance. Peter was looking at Neal with a hope, praying that his partner had found something.

"What're you talking about?" Michael huffed.

"I just need a few minutes is all," Neal asked beseechingly, and Michael looked at him for a long moment before slowly nodding and sitting down.

So what if Michael let them dilly-dally in the house for a few more minutes, it was no skin off of Charlie's nose. She wasn't concerned in the least. They had already thrown their cards up, and nothing could beat her hand. She was sitting on the aces.

"I suppose that you know everything that goes on in this house, don't you Charlie?" Neal said, beginning another trail, Peter glancing back at him, wondering where he was going with this.

She nodded along.

"This is as much my home as my own apartment, if not more."

Her gaze refused to meet Michael's as she spoke.

"Then you knew in advance that we were coming to talk to Michael?"

Though she spoke her assent, it was apparent that she didn't understand what he meant either.

"So it isn't that much of a leap to figure that you would need to return the bond and font before we came." The smile dropped fast off of her face. On the other hand, Peter's mouth slowly began to stretch into a grin.

"But then we did something unexpected by arriving a day before, which is why they weren't there; you couldn't find time to transfer them back into the safe."

The color was draining rapidly from her face, leaving it sallow and yellow looking.

"So the question is; where are the bonds?"

Peter smiled.

"You probably would have moved them to the house in advance so you could find a moment to put them in the safe," he said feeling in control.

"And remember from before when we opened it? The loud banging it made would have told Michael that you were going through the safe, and you didn't need any reason to arouse suspicion. Therefore the best time would be when Michael was asleep," Neal finished off.

"In the chance that you had an opening sometime in the idle of the day-"

"It only makes sense that you would move them into this room."

"Also if something went wrong, the less time, the less room for error."

They looked around the room with new vigor, careful not to touch anything.

"With how Michael treats most of his stuff, she would have had to make sure it was safely protected. Peter murmured as he peeked over a lampshade.

"But it would have to be something that she could safely fit a fairly large piece of paper in." Neal said in response as he circled the mantle.

"For the bond anyways; the font is a whole different story."

Something shiny caught Peter's eye. It stood out starkly against the dusty . . . well, everything.

"Was this picture newly framed, Mr. Frampton?" He asked gesturing towards the photograph of Charlie sitting on his desk. The other man nodded hesitatingly as Peter strode over to the desk.

"Ch- Charlie brought it up today . . ." He seemed to realize the true motive behind it and frowned.

Neal pulled out their reference picture and smiled to himself when the sizes matched up well. He reached to pluck it off the desk when Peter intercepted him.

"Mr. Frampton, with your permission, I'd like to investigate this photograph for potential proof of Ms. Lewis's involvement."

All eyes flickered to the pale man, and for once he did not relish the spotlight. His mouth opened to respond, though he mind hadn't come with an answer yet and he sat for a few tense moments, jaw trembling, before shutting it again.

"Michael. Please, don't let them look. It's your property; you can to tell them to go away!" Charlie pleaded desperately and his sharp blue eyes flickered to her.

"Charlie . . . You've hidden so much from me! Betrayed my trust even."

The pain was stinging like a slap and he could barely keep himself from breaking down in frustration.

"I'm sorry Michael! I didn't mean to betray you!"

"Sir, please, you know the law, let us look at this picture and-" Peter started.

"Quiet! Both of you! You each lied to me!"

Both parties fell silent and watched his every move intently. The feelings within welling up like the rising tides.

"Without truths, you both are . . ."

He didn't even know anything anymore! Charlie was some kind of criminal schemer who had stolen from him to forge bonds! She used his precious antiques to lie to people. Had that been her plan from the beginning? If it was, she had certainly played him like a fiddle.

Then there was Burke and Caffery. They had violated his privacy and come into his world through false means. From the get go they had been trying oh-so-subtly to get information from him. Neal, as he had seen, certainly wasn't as unconfident as he had previously appeared and he could only take that as another ploy to get info from him.

He felt so used.

Slowly, he walked over to the desk and picked up the photograph that had become the eye of the hurricane. It could either be used to insure justice, or save Charlie.

The frame was new; Charlie had said she wanted something newer and brighter for it. He smiled fondly and ran his fingers across the textured paper. It was a picture of an old Dutch building that Charlie visited on her last trip to the Netherlands.

In the background, an aging historical landmark stood proudly. The sun crested above it, half-eclipsed by the architecture. In the corner, there was Charlie. Saffron-yellow fabric was captured mid-moment in a swirling motion as though underwater. Her face wasn't fixed on the camera, rather the building itself so that only a profile of her could be seen. Eye's bright, she was looking at the building in such wonderment that Michael could only guess at the thoughts running through her head.

It was his favorite picture of her.

He walked slowly to the other side of the room and stood near the door, equally between Charlie and Peter and Neal. His eyes were closed and he held the photograph tightly in his grip like it was the only thing in the world. Speaking softly, he asked the question that had been preying upon his mind,

"Charlie, was any of this real? Is the Charlie I know real?" he asked and tears slipped down the woman's face.

"Oh God. Michael. Yes, it was real! It was more real than you know. Oh Michael, it was all for you!" she pleaded, and he opened his eyes to meet her watery gaze.

"I mean, I- I care so much for you Michael! I just wanted to stay here forever in this house with you! With the money we could have lived here self-sufficient and alone forever! It was all for you . . ."

Peter and Neal looked on with mixed feelings as Michael looked even more conflicted than before.

For once, a miracle happened on this earth.

Within that room, the world stopped turning. Age was irrelevant and eons would pass within the blink of an eye. The dust was gold and it was omnipresent, around them and within them. The silence was the orchestra and color was the tangy taste. They could hear the rainbows falling over the earth, and prayers and wishes reaching beyond the planets like shooting stars.

It was a moment on the precipice of reality.

Then he exhaled.

"I-I-I don't think I can turn her i-"

The moment the line was uttered the door was flung open.

The side of it hit Michael flat on the back. Everyone in the room jumped and the frame slipped from Michael's grasp. He watched it fall in slow-motion before hitting the ground awkwardly on its corner. A piece of paper was jolted loose from the frame, and a hairs-width apart was a second, crinkled paper.

It was the bond.

They stared in absolute shock from Alfred who was standing in the door-frame with a ridiculous smile on his face, to the picture frame on the ground.

"It's okay everyone! The hero has arrived!"

"Alfred where have you been? You had us worried, disappearing like that!" Peter scolded and the teen rubbed his head sheepishly.

"Sorry, Pops, I fell asleep." He received a quelling glare in response. Neal smiled at the teen, but turned his head towards the frame on the ground where Michael was hunched over.

"Don't call me pops, you idiot!"

A sliver of brown aged paper peeked through the frame and Neal almost didn't believe what was in front of him.

"Peter! Come look!"

The other man stopped chastising Alfred long enough to make his way over to the frame where there was a decided corner of a missing Dutch Bond sticking out from the frame.

"Is it enough?"

"Well Neal, you know a little bit more about paper than I do. What do you see?" Peter asked gesturing towards the fame and Neal stopped over it with a miffed look.

"'_A __little bit__ more than me.'_ He says." He snorted a little, but honestly, all Peter could do was smile, because in this moment they had come out triumphant.

"Both the paper and font look accurate, I do believe this is out missing bond." He confirmed.

"Oh yeah. It is declared that any incriminating or suspicious evidence in plain sight can be taken for holding, without a warrant. Mr. Frampton, I am claiming this in the name of The United States Government under the suspicion that this has been used for forgery. Ms. Lewis, we would appreciate if you would also come with us. We will also have to search the premises for anything else incriminating." Looking around the messy den, Peter didn't know exactly how much man-power they would need for a task like this.

"Ms. Lewis, if you would please come with us," he gestured towards her and pulled a pair of shining hand-cuffs from his pocket.

Charlie ignored Peter in favor of staring at Alfred disbelievingly and pointing a shaky finger at him.

"But- but I t-thought I-"

He shook his head at her slowly and the horror on her face grew.

"Charlie Lewis, you are under arrest for the suspicion of forging and selling binds illegally, you have the right to remain silent anything you say will be held against you during- hey! What are you doing?"

"I-I don't think I can do this," she said, stepping away from them with a nervous look in her eye. Desperation was the breeding ground for doubt and fear, and through those, a violent end. Alfred frowned at her, the thoughts were ripping through her mind too fast to settle and he feared the dark mood of them.

"In jail . . . without Michael . . ." she murmured to herself, and they weren't sure if she was aware of them anymore. Shakes racked her body and she gripped herself tightly in the vain hopes of holding herself together as everything fell apart.

"I-I- don't- I can't! . . . . I WON'T!" These lines grew in rapidity and fervor with each cycle. The ground was falling beneath her and the icy-cold feeling of loneliness was engulfing her heart. Yet again she was alone.

She had tried so hard!

All she wanted was to live with Michael in this house. To be a true part of his world. In such a reality as this, she might as well as been asking the moon. With all the expenses that came with upkeep and processing the house and antiques of the period, she doubted that even Michael would be able to continue living in his own way. That alone was a travesty.

She had been subtly adding some of her own money into his accounts, (which was easy considering she was his accountant,) but even then, she was barely making ends meet and Michael was still struggling financially.

She had been pondering this very conundrum when she had run into an old friend of her ex's. He also was charged, but in a minor degree and his family had apparently bailed him out. Sparked by memories of that time, she had come up with an idea.

The idea blossomed into a rose, so sweet smelling that she could have been set for life. The thorns however, were dipped in poison. Gripping as tightly as she was, it was no wonder she pricked herself.

This is the end, isn't it?

Now the color was dripping from the flower like wet paint. It was gathering at her feet, slowly gathering itself to drown her in its inky depths.

Fingers still trembling, she reached slowly into her pocket.

"Freeze! Keep your hands where I can see them Ms. Lewis!" Peter ordered, and he quickly pulled his government issued glock 22 from his belt and aimed it steadily at her and repeated the command again.

She withdrew, but she held something tightly clasped within her palm. Her fingers uncurled to reveal a zippo lighter.

Fearing the worse, Peter shouted once more,

"Put your hands above your head!" and Neal and Michael took steps away.

The top swung open and with a short click, a little flame stood in her hand. She was heedless to their cries, her eyes possessed a glazed kind of delusory look and they were totally transfixed on the flickering flame.

Michael stood shell-shocked in the middle of the room and looked like he was about to faint. A thin sheen of sweat dressed him from head to toe, the kind of which he hadn't been subject to in years. Another thing from what seemed lifetimes ago rose up to his heart. It was fear, he diagnosed quite numbly; fear for his house, fear for himself, and mostly, fear for Charlie. He had forgotten the rushing sensation, the urge to scream, the panic and indecision dancing around the intense feeling. God it was terrifying.

"Put down the lighter, Ms. Lewis! I won't ask you again!" Peter shouted authority ringing through his voice.

It was then she did something that something that no one expected. She drew the flame in towards herself, the flame immediately caught her shirt's fabric and ate it up as it spread.

Like a flash, Alfred tackled the woman to the ground. Her mouth barely had time to make a little 'o' of surprise as he was on top of her, patting the flames fervently with his hands.

"Alfred!" Neal was the first to snap out of the shock and he ran up to the teen that lay pinning the terrified looking woman to the ground.

A single drop fell on her face, and it felt like rain. The smell was an indescribable combination of alluvial soil, salt, honey-suckle, pine, bon-fires, brine, and revitalizing water. It was life giving, she realized despondently as he stared into her eyes with such an inscrutable look and spoke softly,

"No."

He held her gaze a few moments longer before he pulled away, and Neal took his spot beside her, once he made sure that Alfred wasn't burned. She was blinking rapidly; the pain was gradually trickling back into her awareness and deadening her nerves. It might have been the delirium, but she swore she saw Michael settle beside him, worry and concern etched clearly on his face.

"Charlie? Are you okay?"

She laughed a watery sort of unstable laugh.

"Am I still alive?" she asked and the pale man before her just nodded, as though words had failed him. He picked up her hand and kissed it hard.

"Now I know I'm dead." Though the fire was gone, the burning sensation lingered, and it made her delusional. Despite the fact her suicide failed, she idly thought it might've been for the best. Michael was being so nice to her. She would deal with the after effects at a later time, in this moment she was held by him, and that was all that mattered.

"No, you're still here. Here with me." His fingers still trembled as he gripped her. He had been so close to losing her.

Neal looked at the burns, and couldn't help but wince a little. Pink and red inflamed flash stretched across her stomach, and reached up towards her breasts. It would most likely scar, but it could have been worse he supposed.

"Neal, I could use a little help!" Peter called, and Neal finally noticed the bonfire flaming in the corner of the office. When Alfred had knocked the Charlie to the ground, the lighter had been tossed to the corner, still lit. Neal leapt to his feet and jumped across the room to where his partner was batting at the flames with a curtain he'd torn down.

"Find me some water or something!" The older man ordered as it consumed more and more of the world around it.

"Where?" He asked helplessly looking around, his partner also seemed to notice how fruitless a search that was.

"Can you call the fire department?"

The other man flicked his phone out and cursed. No bars.

"I don't have any service!"

"Well try and get a signal!" Peter shouted and yelped when the curtain he'd been holding caught fire.

"No, it's too late Peter; we need to get out of here while we still can!" He shouted over the roaring flame. After a few moments of hesitation, Peter nodded in agreement and they rejoined the others.

Alfred was one step ahead of them. He had shed his big red sweatshirt and was zipping it carefully over Charlie, whom was standing rather shakily on her own two feet, to give her a little more cover than her ratted blouse. Michael was hovering behind her, ready to catch if she fell. Once she was covered Alfred swept her up, bridal-style. The serious look in his eyes delayed any conversation and he motioned for Michael to lead the way.

They filed quickly out of the door and down one of the many hallways. The smoke was becoming overwhelming, and they were wracked with coughing. Charlie was half-unconscious from the pain and lack of oxygen.

They were hurrying rapidly down hallway, knowing that time was not on their side. There was enough paper and wood in the den alone to make the fire grow swift and large.

"This way!" Michael ordered coughing once more.

The parched air stole all the moisture from their bodies, and Neal imagined this would probably be what the interior of an over would be like. With the crashing of timber, they knew that the fire had eaten through the floor and was on the main level.

The dashed down the stairs, fire spreading at their heels; the burgundy carpet was morphed into a flaming path.

With one last great burst of speed they crashed through the doors and out of the flame-trap of a house. People rushed forward to help them, as there was a thick bunch of them surrounding the house, firefighters were arriving on the scene at the very moment.

"This woman needs an ambulance!" Neal shouted, his parched voice, sounding like grating metal. One firefighter came up next to him and guided him to one of the two ambulances, where he noticed Neal and Michael were also being herded. Alfred was guided to the other one where Charlie was carefully placed on a stretcher.

Michael was looking intently at the other ambulance, and was mumbling in a shocked manner that didn't make very much sense to anyone but him, but the idea was clear enough. He needed to see her. The paramedic, with all the great patience in the world softly, but sternly forced him sit down and try to relax.

A firefighter was by the next minute and asked them in a rushed fashion if there were any other people inside the building. With a no, he was off again, trying to hook up the hose to the hydrant, though Neal could tell that there was little chance of saving the building. It was already consumed by the great hunger of the flames.

Alfred sank beside Neal; his white tee-shirt was smudged by dirt and soot. His face looked similarly. Neal knew he probably looked much the same, and would mourn the loss of such a fine suit later. Perhaps when there wasn't a house burning down in front of them.

The four men sat together, shoulder to shoulder, on the floor of the ambulance, still in shock from the incident. There was this intense surreal feeling to the whole thing that made Neal expect to wake up from this crazy dream at any moment.

The minutes went past and still nothing happened.

The same paramedic came by again and gave them water bottles, instructing them to drink while she asked them a few questions.

After the first few rounds of grilling them to find out if any of them had gotten injured and how they feeling at the moment, she eventually drifted away to the other ambulance, when they called her.

Silence followed her departure.

Then, Alfred smacked his lips loudly and frowned, drawing their attention.

"Does this mean we aren't going to make the movie?" he asked and Neal was balancing the desire to smack him for being such and idiot or hug him for the same cause.

"No, Alfred," Peter said good-naturedly.

"For a moment there I thought you were going to say you'd left something in the house," Neal said eliciting some wheezy laughter from the others.

"Sorry Alfred, we're not going back for it!" Peter commented assuredly. Even Michael was wheezing along with them.

There wasn't anything particularly funny about the joke, but it sent them into hacking-hysterics. It was like this moment had finally brought it home to them. They were alive, they had survived.

The laughter was stretched longer than was probably comfortable, but they didn't care.

Peter noticed Michael out of the corner of his eye. His sharp chin was tilted up and he was staring trans-fixedly on the sky above them. The sun had sank much closer to the horizon since the time they'd entered the house. The dark hallways depriving them of their natural time measurement and he was surprised at how late it had gotten.

"It's beautiful, right?" Peter spoke, gesturing to the canvas of blue hanging above them.

Michael seemed to be taking it all it.

The sunlight felt alien on his too-pale skin and blinded his eyes. The proximity of all the people was disconcerting, but not as much as the wide expanse of space which he found himself lost in once more.

He took a deep breath.

Charlie needed him.

Charlie needed him.

Charlie needed him.

He would worry about that for the moment, and do his best to ignore the trembles that wracked his hands.

"Are you okay Michael?" Alfred asked. Michael hadn't seen the teen move over beside him, being too occupied with his thoughts. He hadn't really paid very much mind to the teen inside the house. Alfred was just the annoying son of the (supposedly) ignorant a way, he embodied some of the worse things of the world outside; his blunt nature and easygoing naïve smile grated upon Michael's nerves. (For God's sake! Who didn't know where Europe was?)

But the teen moved his hand carefully over Michael's own shaking ones, and he clasped it, and it grew still.

Michael met the teens blue orbs, and felt undeniable strength within them. The depthless cerulean captured him and calmed his mind. He felt the strength pour into himself.

Maybe, just maybe, he could do this.

The teen smiled, as though catching his resolution and withdrew back to the other side of Neal, where he hopped back on the bus and began swinging his legs back and forth in a childish manner, with a wide smile on his face.

Going through such an ordeal together had abolished all the games and masks they wore in front of each other and Michael felt the strangest sort of companionship. With a small smile, he turned towards them before speaking very softly,

"You know, I wasn't sure how I felt about being out of my house, but it sure beats being in it right now!" The unexpected jest caught them off-guard and they indulged in their manic-laughter a few moments more before Neal tipped his water bottle towards them, always the one to commemorate such things.

"To surviving."

Michael regarded it for a moment before following,

"To living." It sounded more like a promise, but the men clicked their plastic together all the same.

And so, they watched the house burn down in the arriving sunset, despite all the firemen's best efforts to quench the flames.

Eventually, Michael rose up and dusted off his clothes the best as he could before gesturing towards the other ambulance.

"I'm going to go and try and ride with them to the hospital." He announced and the other men nodded.

"It's just . . . What happens now?" he asked, with a measured amount of dread towards the answer.

Peter thought for a while before sighing and shaking his head.

" All our evidence went up in smoke and without any proof, we don't have a case that would hold up in court. So nothing happens, Mr. Frampton. Just take care of Charlie, and make sure she never tries anything else again, or we will be back," Peter warned.

Michael seemed unworried about the latter part, and the relief was obvious on his face, the stern, worried expression evaporating, and in its place a truly sincere smile.

"Thank you."

He then shook their hands, and without another word, he was off in the back of an ambulance zipping across town to the hospital.

Alfred gave a quirky little smile.

"Imagine that, we exposed his girlfriend as a felon and burn down his house and he thanked us."

Peter barked a laugh and Neal joined in as well, though much quieter, as was his nature.

The sheer ridiculousness of the situation was finally impacting them.

"What a crazy day. I'm never doing another favor for Hughes again!" Peter promised with a frown.

"Sure. I almost believe that," Neal remarked casually, and his partner shot him a good-natured scowl.

"I think today goes to Alfred for his amazing acting and that little ability to knock people over and start fires," Neal toasted with a wink and Alfred puffed his cheeks, but was glowing with the satisfaction of a job well-done.

For he had made things right. Ish.

"Yes, while that's great and all, you and I are going to have a serious talk later about what you do on our jobs!" Peter scolded and Alfred just smiled, feeding off of his people's elation.

"Sure thing, pops!"

Peter just rolled his eyes, but turned to address Neal.

"I think you also get some share in this Neal, you gave us a real hail Mary with that last save you made. How did you even realize that the documents would be in the room?" Peter complimented, the overwhelming exhilaration of cheating death making him a little looser with his compliments than usual.

Neal just shrugged modestly.

"Fat lot of good it did in the end. Our case went up in smoke. Literally."

"Still, credit where credit is due," Peter said.

"It just sort of clicked I guess . . . so what did you exactly do Peter?" he joked and easily ducked the soft punch that was sent his way.

Sighing, Peter stood up and took one last look at the impressive visage of the burning house against the backdrop of reddening sky, committing it to memory. Today had been a rollercoaster of events and in the end they ended up with no case. It would be funny if he couldn't already picture the lecture coming his way via Hughes.

"Well, I think we've set enough fires for today." The others hopped off of the ambulance, and this time when the paramedic came over to stop them he just flashed her his badge and sent her away with pursed lips.

"I'm going to drop by my house and shower before reporting to Hughes. Did you still want to have dinner with Elizabeth and me? If you're sore we can always do it another day. . . ." Peter suggested.

Looking at Alfred, who just shrugged his soot covered shoulders, Neal shook his head.

"No, I think a nice relaxing dinner with you and Elizabeth is just what I need," he said with a smile.

The other man returned it in earnest.

"Well then, after I deal with Hughes, I'll swing by the house and pick you two up, sound good?"

At both their nods they piled into the car.

They must've made quite the sight, covered in dirt and soot as they were, two in business suits and the other with hair looking more brunette than blonde. Peter didn't even bother trying to make comments about not getting his car dirty knowing it was hopeless. It was a quite drive back, each man captured by their own thoughts.

He dropped them off after telling them that he'd be back in an hour or two.

Neal could sense his partner's impatience to get home and see Elizabeth. It was written all over his face in neon crayons and such a normal thing made him smile

The second he unlocked the door, Alfred was running up the steps shouting,

"I call the shower first! No takesbacksies!" Neal was still in the entrance way by the time he heard the bathroom door slam shut.

Rolling his eyes, he decided to pick out what clothes to wear to dinner after he showered, he hadn't even made it more than three steps in, a voice cut into the silence.

"Look what the cat dragged in, eh Admiral Snuggle-Wuggles?"

Neal turned around slowly and in the dining room across to entrance way, there was an office chair that spun around dramatically to reveal a person with a spotted calico purring loudly in his lap.

"Hello, Mozzie."

* * *

><p>OMAKE! (s)<p>

"Who had access Mr. Frampton?" Peter pushed, though inwardly he knew the answer.

"Charlie." His voice cracked and he repeated himself once more. It was as though speaking had become some laborious task.

"Charlie knew they were in here and even what the passcode was. She helped me inventory my artifacts last fall."

Before anyone could say anything more, the door swung open.

"Hope you all didn't figure out that I stole the fonts and bond to make illegal copies!"

The three men froze.

* * *

><p>"Quiet! Both of you! You each lied to me!" Both parties fell silent and watched his every move intently. The feelings within welling up like the rising tides.<p>

He didn't even know anything anymore! Charlie was some kind of criminal schemer who had stolen from him to forge bonds! She used his precious antiques to lie to people. Had that been her plan from the beginning? If it was, she had certainly played him like a fiddle.

Then there was Neal. Who had violated his privacy and come into his world through false means. From the get go he had been trying oh-so-subtly to get information from him. Neal, as he had seen, certainly wasn't as unconfident as he had previously appeared and he could only take that as another ploy to get info from him.

And Burke . . . no Burke was pretty much the same as he thought; an ignorant asshole.

Hearing his little monologue, Peter couldn't help but snap up offended.

"Hey! It was all an act you hear!"

* * *

><p>"I can't remember." Michael said frustrated, interrupting Peter's trail of suspicions. Peter's eyes narrowed and he decided to make his move.<p>

"Oh really? What a shocker. I'm beginning to think that they aren't even in this room!" Peter brashly declared. Michael turned towards him slowly with a challenging glint in his eyes.

"Are you calling me a liar?"

Suddenly the wall behind them shattered and Alfred stepped through the rubble, "Oh Yeah!"

They all glared at him and he slowly backed away.

"I can see this is a bad time . . . I'll come back later."

* * *

><p>Yeaaah, so the Omake wasn't all that funny, but hey! We have the long awaited dinner to attend.<p>

So it took me, at the least, twelve hours to write this and it would take you like five seconds to review so . . . you know.

**I would so dearly love to have at least 15 reviews**, so then I can finally have 100!

I hated writting this, but it needed to be done and it needed to be said.

I hope some of my logic makes a modicum of sense, if not, then leave a review.

Thank you so much for reading this!

**RE**view?


	7. A Day for IceCream and Rocketships!

Hey everyone! Geez, I'm really just gob-smacked at how many reviews I got. Thank you all so much for being so darn wonderful!

Special shout-out to Shinju Kuroba who was my 100th reviewer! Ah! I'm so excited!

Okay, so Happy Velentines day everyone! At the end there is a special Omake, celebrating the love between a man and his neighbors cats!

Usually, I write because I'm procrastinating from school. And when I procrastinate from writing, I get my school work done. So I actually acomplish a lot through procrastination. (Besides, why does it have a PRO in it if it has negative connotation?) Unfortunately, when I get hooked on a tv show, nothing gets done. I've been watching "Sherlock" and "Skins" and "Misfits" these past few weeks so this has come out sooner than it could have.

Extra special love to my amazing Beta **Kanae Valentine **who is basically, too awesome for words.

The next chapter should be released in a week or two. It's almost done.

This chapter was oddly inspired by "Enya" and "The Band Perry." Weird. Oh and "The xx"

**I do not own anything. Not "Star Wars" not "Diamonds are Forever" not "Smokey and the Bandit" and none of that seventies slang!**

Here is the long awaited appearance of Mozzie.

I hope I do him justice.

* * *

><p><span>Chapter Seven<span>

Didn't you know? Ice-cream and Rocketships Can Take you Anywhere.

* * *

><p><em>"Laughter is America's most important export."<em>

_~Walt Disney_

* * *

><p>The sky outside had turned purple at this point, and the final sliver of sunlight was dipping below the horizon in a manner that was reminiscent of a sinking ship gradually being engulfed by the swirling depths of the relatively unknown. This was almost as sad too.<p>

Though this spectacle was something to behold, due to its commonplace nature, it was normal that the majority of people simply glanced at in passing, or paid no mind to it whatsoever. Then again, some people were far too occupied to be contemplating the small sadness that comes with the setting of another day.

Neal was such a person.

"Well, well, well, look what the cat dragged in."

The feline in his hands meowed in response to his cheap imitation. The emphasized petting wasn't really helping.

"Now, while _Diamonds are Forever_ is probably the Bond movie I dislike the most, it's still a Bond movie, and thus, still a cut above the rest," he chuckled a few times, and the cat meowed in response.

Staring at his long-time friend with amusement, there were a million questions Neal could have asked. Like how he managed to get in here without a key, or why he decided to go with such a clichéd, dramatic entrance, or perhaps, most pressing of all, what exactly he was doing here.

All those questions were of little consequence -not to mention, fairly obvious- and thus he settled on the most concerning.

"Mozzie, what's with the cat?" Neal asked, looking pointedly and the fuzzy creature nestled in his friends lap.

Mozzie was the kind of person you could trust to keep all the deep dark secrets of your past. The kind of man who would risk his own life to save yours, even if he had to go into a government building to do it.

This trust was not extended to the care and protection of small animals.

"What's with the dirt?" Mozzie shot back looking mildly disgusted. "You're absolutely covered in it." Mozzie abandoned the swivel chair to inspect Neal, with a look of curiosity and aversion to the mess of ash that had settled amongst the cloth.

Apparently Neal wasn't imagining the look of distaste at the state of his clothes.

"I asked you first, but Alfred accidently set the suspects house on fire—"

Mozzie blinked, before a rather warm smile, (that was rather creepy given the circumstances,) spread from ear to ear. Neal ignored it finishing his sentence with sincere worry for the wiggling animal held in the other man's hands.

"—and I didn't know you had a cat. In fact . . . Aren't you allergic?"

As is on cue the other man sneezed, his nose crinkling in dislike. He gratefully grabbed the box of white Kleenex Neal pressed into his hands which were acquired from a nearby table. After a few more bursts, and a moment of waiting to see if anymore would come, it seemed his fit had settled. Neal held out a small trash bin for the other man to deposit the pile of used, grimy, tissues that had amassed on his lap, but the shorter man declined, and hastily shoved them into his pockets, not particularly caring about his coat.

"You never know what someone could do to you if they had your phlegm," he said warningly.

"You mean besides catch a cold," Neal said with amusement, as he passed the repossessed animal back to Mozzie. The speckled man grinned sheepishly, holding the squirming cat in front of his face, as though to address the animal itself, though this time far enough back as to not stimulate another sneezing fit.

"Meet Admiral Snuggle-Wuggles, Ms. Kenly was kind enough to supply this little prop. Admiral, meet Neal. He looks a little scraggly right now, but I promise he isn't always so dirty."

Neal raised an amused eyebrow.

"You know, I think she really did mean it when she said that she was going to call the cops on you the next time you stole one of her cats. Especially the Admiral. You know how much she loves that thing. . . "

Some might consider living next to an (extremely) eccentric man, such as Mozzie, to be a great challenge. Then again, if you out-eccentrified him, say, with several _dozen_ cats that seemed to breed every time he turned around, it really just became some weird deranged pissing contest between two very odd people. Not even the strangest of game-shows would consider it proper entertainment.

I.e. Mozzie would steal her cats and she would trick the postman into going to Mozzie's door. (Her knowledge of his hatred for all things federal had turned out to be invaluable.)

The small things, like this, made Neal eternally grateful that he had such a wonderful living space with an understanding and classy home-owner.

Beat crazy cat-lady nine times out of ten.

(That wasn't to say that Neal hadn't been subjected to many a scheme involving feline ends.)

"I'm doing her and them a favor by taking them." It was a good point. He continued, "Besides, there was no way you'd get my movie quote any other way."

"Mozzie, I still didn't get it, you know I never watched any of those movies."

"But you did get that I was playing the evil man with a cat, yes?" Neal rolled his eyes, but nodded. "Case and point," he said with a self-assured nod.

The gesture made Neal smile and give a few raspy chuckles.

"I thought I had an exciting day with my felid espionage, but I think you might have had something a bit more eventful."

The remarkable nature of Mozzie was such that he could be concerned and so blessedly normal at the same time. Amusingly enough, it was this uneven, strange man who was Neal's anchor for normalcy. Because when the world got weird and upside-down, the simple fact was that Mozzie always was upside-down. He was the most consistently uneven person the world had ever seen.

Asking for something as unruly and irrepressible as life to lie flat and behave was like asking for more hours in the day, or a burrito that wouldn't fall apart in your hand; it simply wasn't happening. People also often hid much of what they didn't want you to see and sometimes aren't as fully rounded as people should be. Mozzie was all he was. No hiding, no tricks no trying to impress another person. He just _was._

Neal was so distracted with his thoughts and was still fairly overwhelmed with the events of the day that he had failed to notice Mozzie's absence until he was back, pressing a cool glass of water into his hands. He accepted the clear liquid gratefully, not realizing how truly thirsty he had been until the refreshing fluid washed past his parched lips and into his dusty throat. (It felt like the paramedics had been shoving water down his throat to the point where drowning was becoming a deep concern.)

"So what happened?"

Pulling himself from the glass, the final drops being sucked away, he noticed the little shimmer of worry in his friend's eyes. He murmured a quite thank you, before composing his thoughts and beginning his narrative.

"The weather was so clear, I remember because Alfred was ruining it with his terrible singing . . ."

As he spoke, he felt some unknown pressure fall from his chest, as though the simple act of being able to share with someone what he had felt like during the experience was freeing in some way. He allowed himself to dwell on the little details of the narrative, particularly the miniscule art details that only people like he and Mozzie would ever be able to appreciate. And appreciate, Mozzie did, he broke the string of events several times to ask a few more details on the lost treasure of the house. Whenever parts of the relatively tragic lives of Charlie and Michael came up, Mozzie was quiet and thoughtful. It continued like this for the whole of the narration until the end when Mozzie was fidgeting and snickering with repressed laughter.

"You're kidding me! He actually knocked the lighter on the floor!"

Neal nodded, seeing the humor in the situation now that he was farther away from the incident. The fact he _wasn't_ trapped in said burning building and _hadn't_ burned to a crisp was also one of those little things that helped people keep in good spirits, and view things in retrospect.

"And then Peter set the drapes on fire trying to put it out," Neal smirked as he spoke.

The comment had the desired effect as Mozzie laughed animatedly.

"I can picture the suit doing that!"

"He has good intentions but sometimes things turn awry," Neal responded with a smile.

Neal finished his narration with their escape, and a brief summary of the preceding day.

"I wonder what happened with her and Alfred when they were downstairs," Mozzie said, looking pensive.

Neal hesitated. He wasn't sure either. All he knew was that Alfred had emerged without a single scratch. And yet, the things she had the chance to do to him . . . It was truly a rude awakening. They needed to be more careful with Alfred.

"I don't know. I haven't had time to ask him. She says he fell asleep though."

"He was gone for a while you said?" Mozzie asked, detective face firmly planted.

"Yeah, for at least an hour or maybe a little less."

"Hmmm." Though he looked deep in thought, Neal could tell that Mozzie had nothing.

His attention was quickly diverted when Mozzie let out a groan.

"Oh, the suit!" Mozzie bemoaned, brushing various smudges of soot and dust off where he could, it wasn't accomplishing much besides leaving a little pile of black on the gleaming marble.

"I know. I'm going to have to apologize to June. This was one of her husband's favorites." He let out a sigh before pulling off the outer jacket and hanging it lopsidedly on the post of the railing. The holes left a whole new kind of pattern on the expensive, well-cut material that was reminiscent of a slotted spoon.

"If you get kicked out, you can always move in with me, I could always use an extra hand with Kenly."

Neal shot him a wry grin.

"That would mean that Peter would drop in whenever he liked."

The other man whitened and chewed a little on his tongue as though he'd just tasted something disgusting.

"Never mind then; you're on your own."

Now Neal let out a true laugh.

"Well I suppose you'll never find out what made its way inside my pockets." He said, the smile growing larger on his face as he carefully reached in the tattering pockets.

"You didn't?" Mozzie had an absolutely excited grin pulling on his face.

"Ye of little faith." He said as trinket upon trinket appeared from the dark recesses of his demolished jacket. Thirteen glazed figures, three thin books and one miniature vase had found a way into his pockets and socks during the commotion.

Mozzie carefully picked up one of the miniature figurines with and ran it over with a practiced eye, before letting out a little sigh of delight. He plucked one up in the sleeve of his shirt and admired it in the artificial light.

"Authentic figurines from the 1500's; there truly is nothing sweeter on a Wednesday . . . Besides, perhaps, the look on Ms. Kenly's face. I'll be able to fence these no problem."

Neal smiled, happy that someone else could appreciate these as much as he did. He was momentarily struck by the stray thought, that perhaps this was how Michael felt sharing with Neal. There was a sharp jab of sadness and regret at what he had done to the man. Perhaps, it was the fact that the whole thing hadn't been a lie. Maybe, on another day, in a different week, in a past decade they could have been friends.

As if sensing what path his companions thoughts had turned down, Mozzie stirred him out of it,

" '_Love is a fire. But whether it is going to warm your hearth or burn down your house, you can never tell.'_" Mozzie said, the words enveloped by meaning and Neal smiled softly.

"Joan Crawford."

"Yeah, though I don't think she intended it literally," Mozzie remarked and Neal let loose a few chuckles.

"The interpretation is left to the user."

"For better or worse."

"Decidedly worse in this case."

"Yeah, perhaps a bit."

There was another round of smiles accompanied by quiet meows. The sunlight was finally fading, and the last stray, reminiscent, particles of light were already settling in a glow that peeked just beyond sight for a few minutes, before disappearing altogether.

"So, did you get what I asked for?" Neal asked, and Mozzie glanced over his shoulders in a suspicious way before speaking.

"Where is the little fire-starter?" Mozzie asked peeking around Neal towards the staircase.

"He stole the shower first. Notakesbacksies apparently." Neal gestured towards the upper level, where, surely enough, the telltale sounds of running water accompanied by echoing singing could be faintly heard.

"Good, 'cause what I have on him is pretty ridiculous," Mozzie said and Neal leaned forward in anticipation.

"What is it?"

Mozzie smiled before slowly opening his mouth.

"Nothing."

Neal did a double-take.

"Nothing?"

"Nothing," he affirmed, with another mysterious grin.

"What do you mean? You couldn't get ahold of any of his files or something?"

"No, I mean that there weren't any files to get ahold _of._"

Neal, obviously taken aback sat down into one of the dining room chairs.

"I bet the government has his files under lock and key. Probably for his family's history," Neal mumbled, putting together the pieces.

"I don't know man; this was a little too thorough, even for them," Mozzie said, and at Neal's quizzical look he continued,

"There are approximately 1,281 people in the United States with the name Alfred Jones. After sorting through some pictures and more facebook pages than I care to remember, I didn't find anything that matched the description you gave me."

Neal rubbed his face tiredly.

"You didn't find anything? Not even high school articles, or even tags of him?"

"Zilch, nada, zip, nix, nil, nothing!"

"But that's practically impossible, not even you are that invisible . . . Are you sure that you dug deep enough?"

"Hey man, I used all my resources, but nothing came up. Now, if you wanted to hear about Alfred Jones, age 38, who lives in Oklahoma City, I think I could tell you his entire life story. The internet is pretty frightening, you know."

"I'm guessing his family turned up similar results then."

"If you call 'zero' a result, which I do, then yes."

Neal fell silent. Mozzie's methods had never failed prior to this and it left Neal at a bit of a loss.

"Look, I'll talk to the kid and see if I can find any other information to search on him. It's possible he got overlooked among the other thousand 'Alfred Jones,'" Mozzie offered after seeing the look on his friends face. Neal smiled ruefully.

"You do know that he works as a temp for the Government right? Right in the White House."

Mozzie made a very unpleasant face, but took a large, dramatic breath before sighing.

"The things I do for you," he sighed shaking his head, like he couldn't even believe it himself.

"Thank you, Moz," Neal spoke genuinely.

For a minute they basked in the evening dusk, the luxury of the extravagant penthouse and all the furniture and antiques within it. Mozzie interrupted the impromptu silence by fingering one of the figurines.

"In the meantime I'll see if I can find someone willing to fence these, but until then-"

He was cut off by the sound of the front door opening. Neal's eyes widened in horror.

"Crap! It's Peter!"

Mozzie met Neal's panic and they hastily stashed the stolen figurine's out of sight, while trying not to make a suspicious amount of noise, or even the "I'm-hiding-very-suspicious-things" kinds of noises.

Footsteps slowly echoed closer to them, before arriving in the dining room. Peter peeked over the wall, obviously attempting to catch them at something without it looking like he was. When they weren't doing anything, he hurriedly and awkwardly straightened himself with a cough. He was wearing some grey FBI sweats that he no doubt, slipped into in lieu of a suit. The comfort was definitely earned after such a trying day.

"Hello."

"Hello, Suit."

"What are you doing here Mozzie?"

"Visiting a friend after his escape from a flaming death trap."

"Hn."

That was about as warm as it got for the two.

"Hello Peter. How was Hughes?" Neal asked. Peter seemed to be weighing his words before he spoke, as though he wasn't sure himself.

"He was okay in retrospect, it could have been much worse. After all, we did kind of burn down the house."

"Does anyone at the office know?" The little thing with Alfred really was enough gossip for the moment. Neal hated to think what kind of beating their reputation would get when they found out they burnt down a suspect's house. That was a rookie mistake, if it was anything.

"Hughes said he wouldn't tell anyone, but you know how those things circulate."

"Worse than STDS," Mozzie put in, receiving an unwelcome look from Peter.

"And you've worked in an office building before?"

"First job," Mozzie said stoically, revealing nothing else. The other men gave each other looks and raised eyebrows both in curiosity and in mirth. It was then that the Admiral decided to make a reappearance.

He brushed himself fondly on the leg of Peter's sweats, and the other man bent down to pet the cat.

"I didn't think June had a cat. Is he yours, Mozzie?"

"Mozzie's watching him for a neighbor," Neal gave a small lie, if only to save himself from Mozzie's long winded explanation of the evils of his old neighbor.

"Admiral Snuggle-Wuggles," Mozzie said gesturing to the cat.

"That's very . . . nice. Ah. What's this you got in your mouth little guy?" Peter asked noticing something poking out of the cat's mouth. Neal paled. While he wasn't a huge believer of Murphy's Law, the idea that anything that can go wrong will, but when it came down to things like this, he never did like his chances. He was proven right as Peter extracted a very chewed figurine head from the Admirals mouth. He briefly wondered where the other half had gone, but decided it wasn't worth knowing.

Peter immediately turned on Neal with a vindictive smile.

"Look at what we have here."

"Mozzie! What have you been giving the cat to chew on?" Neal remarked in mock shock.

"Cut the crap Neal! I remember seeing this inside the house," Peter said, and Neal could see him winding up for a lecture and he groaned inwardly.

"What have I told you about stealing from people?" Peter shouted, making Mozzie jump in surprise, having clearly never been on the receiving end of one of Peter's lectures.

"Stealing is always wrong, but most especially when they are suspects! If they even noticed it was missing do you know how much trouble I would be in?"

"I don't think there's a chance of that happening," Mozzie snorted referring to the indiscernible ashy quality all the possessions once in the house now had. Peter ignored it and looked straight in Neal's eyes and tried to convey the seriousness,

"You would be sent right back to the slammer, and this time I wouldn't have the motivation or standing to get you out."

"I know, I'm sorry, but the building was burning down; I just wanted to save something." Neal said contritely, and Peter leveled him a hard look, so he continued, "Besides, if I hadn't it would have ended up as ashes, just like the rest of the house!"

Peter let out a weary sigh and rubbed his face.

"I'll take your word on this; for now."

Neal just nodded, trying to look properly chastised.

"Now, what else did you take?"

"Nothing, the figurine was all I had time to grab." Another lie made its way past his lips, coaxing and enticing Peter's ear. 'Believe me,' it seemed to say.

"Bullshit. What else did you take?"

Neal abandoned the persuasive tactic and took up an offended one.

"I'm serious Peter. The building was burning; I didn't have time to grab anything else!"

His plea was met with another calculating look, as Peter scanned the room for potential places, then it settled on Mozzie, who had been watching the proceedings with great interest, and from there, onto his bulging sweater pockets.

"Aha!" Peter leaped for Mozzie, and the other man instinctively moved out of the way, but Peter was used to having to chase his quarry and after a short scuffle, jammed his hands in Mozzie's pocket. It wasn't quite what he expected.

"Eugh! What's in there?" He withdrew his hand quicker than he put it in, a look of total revulsion pulled across his face. A few white crumpled tissues followed his hand's exit, and Peter looked a little green. Mozzie immediately scooped them off the floor and pointed an accusing hand towards Peter,

"See! The 'man' _is_ trying to steal my phlegm! I told you he would!" Neal just sighed and shook his head at the pair of them; hopeless, absolutely hopeless.

"I wasn't trying to steal your Snot! I wanted to see if you had any figurines!"

"Oh _sure!_ That's exactly what a man trying to steal my DNA would say!"

"I wasn't trying to- Ugh! You know what? Just forget it!" he said throwing his hands into the air in a sign of giving up. "I'm going to go watch the game until dinner time," he announced sounding a little huffy as he ascended the staircase.

The pair waited for a few minutes after they heard the roar of the televised fans before continuing,

"That was smooth ,Mozzie," Neal complimented, noticing his friend unroll a few of the figurines from the tissues. Mozzie just smiled and nodded. "No really, even for you that was clever."

"_I find your lack of faith disturbing_."

"What?"

"It's a quote."

"From what?"

"You don't know who said that?"

"No, who?

"Darth Vader."

"Is he from one of your cult movies?"

The shorter man threw his arms in the air as Neal laughed.

* * *

><p>The swirling steaming jets ran rivulets down his back as he stood motionless in the shower. His damp, straw-colored hair hung limply around his face as he watched the water circle down the drain. It was therapeutic in a way, and almost hypnotizing in another; the way that the water simply washed away all the soot, as if in passing, before spilling down the hole.<p>

It must be easy being water, he thought.

Nice too.

Water could do anything. It could pull the dirt from anything, erode rocks, create canyons, support life, and take it just as easily, it could be refreshing and scalding, overflowing and retreating, omnipresent and absent, sanctifying and damning. Without water, there wouldn't be any water-parks, or beaches or even, hell, water!

Everyone needed it. And water didn't even seem to notice or care.

Maybe that was part of the charm.

Water doesn't even have to think about what it does. It just did it. What kind of awesome job was that? If he had a choice to be reincarnated, he would want to come back as water. To flow through the Mississippi River. Or maybe the Colorado River. Or maybe even the Great Salt Lake Or maybe!- (He'd decide later.)

The point was that water was totally awesome, without trying. It was undeniable.

He needed a job with less thinking. Too much of it made his brain hurt. Too much of it made his heart hurt. Too much of it _hurt_.

Finally clicking the water off, he stepped from the cubicle onto the cold tile floor, shaking his hair as he did. He stood hovering in the mirror for a few minutes, staring at the condensed water that had formed on the surface.

It really was everywhere, wasn't it?

Well that decided it, now didn't it? He pulled his phone out and quickly sent a text to his boss. It would do no good to leave the man unaware of his plan.

Quickly drying off, he pulled on his clothes and carefully perched Texas back on his face before heading out of the bathroom. In the main room, he found Peter sitting on the couch, with a beer in one hand and a remote in the other.

"_Looking for a game to watch before he goes home, knowing that he will be too occupied to watch the game later on. His favorite teams are—"_

Alfred shook himself and pulled his shirt over his head.

"There's a game on channel four. Celtics and Lakers are playing," he commented offhandedly startling Peter.

"Thanks," he murmured, switching the channel to the basketball game. Alfred pulled a beer from the fridge for himself before sinking into the cushion beside Peter.

They took a drink in unison.

Without taking his eyes from the screen in front of him, Peter asked, "Are you okay Alfred?"

Alfred swallowed a generous amount of his drink before answering.

"I'm super."

Peter rolled his eyes. For the first time since he'd met the kid, he didn't feel like chatting Peter's ear off. That could be a sign all on its own. Or it was the much uglier alternative, which implied Peter guessing what was going on in Alfred's mind. He sucked at guessing games.

This was already a recipe for a failure of communication, and he hadn't even said anything yet.

The one thing he couldn't deal with, second to crying women, was teenagers. It was like walking in a minefield. One false step could lead into an explosion of repressed fury that they saved, and bottled just for you. He didn't remember what it was like being that age. And teenagers could smell that. He stole a nervous glance at Alfred, who was actually looking at him with an amused smile.

"You're looking at me like I was testing you or somethin'. I'm serious here, I'm really super."

"Yeah?" Peter asked, still hesitatingly.

Alfred nodded with a smile before turning back to the game.

Peter sighed in relief but didn't lower his guard. Teens were expert at repressing this stuff. And really, who could blame the kid if he felt kind of terrible. He witnessed a psychological break, stopped a suicide and inadvertently started a fire in one afternoon.

Hell, Peter wasn't even the one who didn't and he felt pretty terrible just thinking about it a_nd_ he was supposedly trained to handle situations like this.

But Alfred was just sitting there, smile on his face as he watched some dumb commercial.

It was undermining every preconceived notion about teenagers that Peter had. Most of his experiences came from his cousins and his wife's various nieces and nephews. (Very rowdy, rude and sullen altogether.)

Perhaps Alfred was just different.

It wouldn't be all that surprising, given his personality.

Either way, it was important the teen knew that he could rely on Peter for the weeks ahead of them.

"Alfred."

He tore his eyes from the multi-colored screen.

"Hm?"

Damn! Why was his gaze so piercing. Peter felt like an idiot, but pressed forward.

"I er, I just wanted to make sure you knew that if you ever wanted to talk about . . . stuff, that I'm here for you."

If there ever was a more stilted delivery than that . . .

Despite the expected ridicule, or even a few snickers, Peter was treated to an absolutely brilliant smile that left him speechless.

"Thanks, Peter."

It was layered with honesty. The kind of honesty that you stop expecting from anyone else besides a child. Pure and meaningful. It swallowed his mind whole.

Alfred didn't give him time to recover; he stood and knocked back the last of his drink with a satisfied smack.

"I think I'll go and greet this Mozzie guy. Thanks again, Peter."

And just like a passing hurricane he was gone, leaving the fed stunned on the couch.

Alfred was different alright.

* * *

><p>"Luke I am your father!"<p>

"Ummmm, no."

"It's a trap?"

"Huh?"

"I thought they smelled bad on the outside?"

"What does?"

Mozzie just stared incredulously at Neal.

"Who hasn't seen Star Wars?"

"Me?"

"You knew that was rhetorical."

"I did," he smirked and laughed again at his friend.

"The minute that the suit is out of the house we are having a marathon! All six movies and the series that spin off of it and all the video games and-"

"Star Wars marathon? Oh I am soo game!" A voice announced from the top of the stairs.

They both turned and saw Alfred standing there in a pair of converse, purple skinny jeans and a "Frankie Says Relax" t-shirt.

Neal couldn't help but regard him as a helpless case.

"Alfred, are you really going to wear that?"

Alfred leveled him with a very, very flat look.

"What did I say about the comments about my wardrobe?"

Neal just held his hands up with a smile in a sign of surrender. He then moved forward to introduce Mozzie. From what Alfred had just said, he had hope that maybe the two of them would get along better than he had initially anticipated.

"This is Mozzie, he's a good friend of mine. Moz-" He frowned as he looked at his vacant companion who was usually so animated.

"Moz?" He shook him and the other man seemed to recover himself.

"Hm? What?"

"Meet Alfred." He nudged Mozzie who nodded slightly in the teen's direction.

Al just gave a wide smile, and an excessive wave.

"Nice ta meetcha man!"

It was a strange contrast, Neal noted, looking from Mozzie to Alfred. Physically they were polar opposites. Where Mozzie was short and dark-haired with brown eyes and a slightly larger than average nose, Alfred was tall and blonde with proportionate features. Right now, Mozzie looked like a coiled spring and Alfred looked like he was floating on air without a care in the world.

Had Neal missed something?

"I'm just going to head up and grab a shower, okay?"

He looked meaningfully at Mozzie who met his gaze slowly.

They opened their mouths at the same time, but Peter cut both of them off with a shout, "Hey! Are you going to shower or not? I'm not waiting here all day for you to get ready!"

Neal just rolled his head and headed up the stairs.

"Why don't you two try and get to know each other?"

Maybe then Mozzie could dig up some info on him.

"Yeah, sure thing," Alfred agreed easily, and Mozzie just nodded.

Neal looked at them weirdly for a few moments, feeling hesitant for some reason about leaving them alone like this.

"Neal! Hurry up!"

"I'm coming, I'm coming. Sheesh Peter, there's no need to yell."

The air was static until they heard the water running.

"It's been a while," Mozzie was a first to start.

Alfred just smiled.

"Aww shucks, I'm flattered that you remember me!"

He was greeted with a strange look.

"How could I ever forget?"

* * *

><p><em>It was summer. The heated air carried the smell of freshly cut grass and lemonade through the city. Children were playing on the side-walks, the stained chalk in their sweaty palms creating artwork on the concrete covered earth, which would be washed away by the start of September. The park benches were occupied by young and old alike, unbiased as the air was and there was the slightest stirring of a breeze picking up.<em>

_Most would agree that it was a wonderful day to be alive._

_And yet, in the shadow of an old building with the title "St. Ann's Orphanage," there sat a lone child. He watched emotionlessly as the other children skipped rope and had imaginary sword-fights. The only sign of any discomfort was the gradual tightening of his grip on an old ratty teddy-bear; not that anyone was around to notice. The adults were off, occupied by whatever else was going on in there funny little lives. _

_Besides, their job was to take care of the children, not make friends with them._

_So the boy sat in the shadows and watched the smiling children, unable to feel jealousy, because he never knew anything else. _

_No one would dare talk to him, because he was the boy without a name. It was strange, and weird and odd, as they often told him. New kids were easily dissuaded from trying to form friendships with him by the older kids who knew better._

"_Why don't you got a name?" they would ask._

_And he never answered._

_Because he didn't know._

_He didn't even have that._

_Today was like most days; except for the part where it wasn't._

_Someone popped the bubble, going so far off-script that they wound up in another dimension, and that little astronomical event came in the form of a strange looking teenager who found himself skidding to a stop on the dusty stoop of "St. Ann's Orphanage."_

"_Whew! That was a close one, wasn't it?" he asked aloud, an accomplished grin pulled across his face._

_The boy looked around; curious to whom he was talking to. None of the adults were around, and the children were all in the corner of the courtyard, because apparently, Billy Nipp had found a slug._

"_I feel sorta like Bandit , you know?"_

_The child blinked. There was no doubt about it. He was definitely talking to him._

"_Like who?" He asked confusedly and nervously._

"_You know, like Bandit from __Smokey and the Bandit.__ The awesome movie, it's got Burt Reynolds and Sally Fields and Jerry Reed and stuff."_

_He shook his head. Why listing off the actors would help, the child didn't know. The teen seemed determined to remind him of something he had never seen._

"_They have these awesome chase scenes where they book it from the cops and stuff."_

"_Were you booking from the cops?"_

"_Wha-? No!"_

"_That's what bad guys do, right? That's what my teacher says anyways."_

"_Well- ye-no-kinda! . . . I wasn't booking from them, alright?"_

_This seemed to fluster the teen for some reason and the boy cocked his head curiously._

"_Then who were you running from?"_

"_The Vice President," he revealed, and seemed to be waiting for something._

"_Oh. Isn't that bad? He's important and stuff, right?" _

_The questioning tone in the boy's voice, made the teen frown as he flung himself on the steps beside the boy. The brunette automatically shied away from habit, but the elder just flung his arm around his shoulders, capturing him. The boy didn't find himself minding that much, as the warmth and comfort the gesture brought was quickly absorbed into his body._

"_Yeah, he's like super important and junk. I'll do what I gotta do later, right now I really just want to relax and eat some ice-cream. It's the only way to spend a hot summer day like this, you know," he said factually, nodding his head in his sureness._

"_That isn't very responsible of you. Especially because you're skipping out on work to come and watch the children play. Teacher tells us all about stranger-danger."_

_The teen ignored the implications being sent his way and instead smiled._

"_You can speak really well, huh. How old are you again?"_

"_Five."_

_The teen let out a low whistle. _

"_That's pretty impressive."_

"_So I've heard."_

"_You don't seem all that excited about it," the blond said confusedly._

"_It gets pretty monotonous after the first dozen times."_

"_Still seems pretty amazing to me!" he laughed. "So what other stuff do you know?" he asked with a smile. In his experience, children all wanted, or needed a little moment in the spotlight. Whether they knew it themselves or not._

"_I don't know simple stuff I suppose."_

"_Like . . . "_

_The boy just shrugged in response; he didn't know which of the hundreds of facts bouncing about his skull could be counted as marvelous._

"_Well then, what is two plus two?" Best not make the boy think he was stupid if he set the bar too high and the kid couldn't answer it._

"_Four." Not even a split second of hesitation, so the teen decided to pursue it a little more._

"_What's seven plus three?"_

"_Ten."_

"_Ten plus ten?"_

"_Twenty."_

"_Seventeen plus seventeen?"_

"_Thirty-four."_

"_Twenty-eight plus thirty-seven?"_

"_Sixty-five." _

_He upped the ante._

"_One hundred seventy-nine plus eighty-seven?"_

"_Two hundred sixty-six."_

_Now he switched tactics._

"_What is the third planet in the solar system?"_

"_Earth."_

"_What is our galaxy called?"_

"_The Milky-Way."_

"_How many moons does Jupiter have?"_

"_Nineteen; that we know of."_

"_What is the capital of New York?"_

"_Albany."_

"_Vermont?"_

"_Montpelier."_

"_Russia?"_

"_Moscow."_

"_Bhutan?"_

"_Thimphu."_

"_Who invented electricity?"_

_This the kid gave pause, but before the teen could say anything he asked,"Discovered or harnessed?"_

"_Far out! You are an incredibly smart kid, d'you know that?"_

"_We have library days every Tuesday and Friday," he said, as though that explained everything._

" _. . . Right. Well you are one definitely one cool cat!"_

_The child ducked his head as he felt his cheeks heating up from the praise. He heard some foot-steps approaching and saw a small group of some of the older kids approaching the steps._

"_Hey! Come play with us!" One of them urged, pulling on the teen's sleeve. He was cool, older, and strong. It wasn't hard to imagine the idolism. _

"_I'm a bit busy right now," the teen said surprising his small companion, who had assumed he would take this chance to scurry off and go play with the older, cooler kids._

"_No, come play with us!" the leader insisted._

"_Maybe in a bit," the teen answered with a smile._

"_Don't hang out with no-name, hang out with us!" he whined, and probably for the first time the teen frowned._

_The nameless child droped his eyes from the conversation, not wanting to see the displeasure on the teen's face. He knew he should have warned the teen beforehand that he didn't have a name. He wasn't here. He was a nonentity. _

_Throughout his life he had never met anyone who didn't have a name. It seemed a granted thing. So basic, and so elementary. None of the people he had read about in his extensive studies were nameless, and that was just it; nameless people didn't get remembered in history. Sometimes, it was only their names that went on for legacy._

_The teen sat there frowning for a minute before gesturing the other children forward._

"_You guys seem like smart kids so I'll give you the skinny." They leaned in eagerly, and the nameless child just wanted to disappear."I don't take kindly to exclusion. Do you know what I mean?"_

_The nameless kid looked up in disbelief and joy as the other kids shook their heads, nervously, sensing the displeased feeling behind it._

"_It means that when you leave someone out, not on accident, but on purpose, you choose to hurt them. In other words, when you leave them out of activities, or ignore them you are making them feel bad, and hurt and lonely."_

_A few eyes widened. They never really understood the implications of their actions before now. Under the teen's piercing gaze, it felt like he knew everything. A thought jumped in the heads that perhaps the teen was going to get revenge for what they had done to the nameless child. (It was an on-going hollow-threat that cycled around the orphanage that one day "My big brother's gonna come and beat you up!" but as of yet none of them had materialized into reality.)_

_In any case, it didn't seem that any of the kids were particularly keen on finding out if this was the nameless kid's long lost brother and they scrammed before the teen could say anything else. The blond seemed mildly content that he had made his point before he sat back down next to the brunette._

"_It's true you know, what they say."_

_The teen waited for the kid to continue._

"_I really haven't got a name."_

"_No? What does every one call you then?"_

"_The nameless child."_

"_The adults too?"_

"_No, they call me John Doe, but that's what they call kids who don't have names. Everybody knows that." He explained like it was one of the obvious facts of the universe._

"_Well why don't you just pick one? It's easy! There are lotsa names to choose from!"_

_The kid just shook his head._

"_Why not?"_

"_You can't take one; it has to be given to you." _

_Here the teen shook his head._

"_I have a middle name. It wasn't something I was born with, it was something that I had to discover, and take for myself."_

_The kid looked at him strangely, but still didn't feel any differently on the matter. The teen decided to switch tactics._

"_So, then I could give you a name, right?"_

_After mulling this over in his head, he realized that it did make sense._

"_Yes, I suppose, if you wanted to."_

"_I do."_

_That simple statement gave a warm tingling feeling deep within his chest, that made the boy clutch at it in confusion._

"_Well, hm. Do you want to pick out a name or should I?"_

"_Uh, mm I don't care."_

"_Alright, how about Harry?"_

"_No."_

"_Right then, James?"_

"_No."_

"_Samuel?"_

"_No."_

"_Freddie?"_

_Another much deadpanned response._

_They probably shouldn't be going about this in such a cavalier fashion, because they were picking out a name and names were very important. It would give the first impression of the person even before they met._

"_It has to have meaning," the child put forth._

"_Okay, well then . . . how about Starsky?"_

_A shake of the head._

"_Washington?"_

"_No!"_

"_Why don't you decide?"_

_The kid gave a fervent shake of the head._

"_Who do you admire then?" Maybe that could decide what qualities the name should have._

_The child thought for a moment so the teen prodded him gently with suggestions._

"_Superman, Abe Lincoln, the Beatles-"_

"_Mozart."_

_The blond eyed his short friend carefully. The parallel's between two child-geniuses were very complimenting of the choice, but something still didn't feel right._

"_I don't think I'd be doing you a favor if I gave you a name like Mozart, you dig?"_

_The child nodded slowly._

"_Perhaps we could change it a bit. If I named you something old and dull like that, I think you'd probably turn out just as boring!" He said it as though it was of great concern._

"_So what then?"_

_The teen closed his eyes and mumbled a few variations to himself._

"_Zart, Zarty, Mozarty, Mozar, Mo-" His eyes flashed open and he snapped. "I got it! Your name is Mozzie!" There was no denying the look of self-satisfaction on the teen's face. Meanwhile the child tested it a few times on his tongue._

"_Mozzie." Hm. He liked the z's._

"_How do you like it?"_

"_It works."_

_The teen laughed when as he realized how deeply the child did indeed like it._

"_Well thank goodness for that!"_

"_Say, Mozzie, do you like ice-cream?" He asked turning of the boy, who jumped, still not used to being addressed by his name._

"_Um yeah. I like ice-cream."_

"_Great! Then I'll get us some!" he stood up quickly, startling the boy, who had budding worries that his new companion might be leaving so soon._

_The concerns were quickly put to rest as the teen walked over to the side of the street and raised his arm in the air for a few seconds, seeming to be concentrating on something that the boy couldn't see._

_Just seconds later, the tune of an ice-cream truck could be heard turning the corner. The younger boy's eyes widened in wonder, but he was quickly shoved aside as, like the swelling of a great tide, the children from the yard and inside the house poured forward all crowding around the ice-cream truck like it was a life-boat on the Titanic._

_In the middle of the sea of kids, there stood Alfred, trying to make his way to the front counter of the truck. After a few moments of struggling he did indeed succeed._

"_Hey Jim! Can I have . . . one, two, three . . . um thirty-eight- no forty ice-cream cones?"_

"_What flavors?" he asked, his demeanor looking much more agreeable than just seconds before._

"_Umm lemme ask. Hey guys, what flavors do you want?"_

"_Str-co-nilla-berry!" The answer wasn't understood in any known language._

"_Right. Um, why don't you all get in line and tell him when you get up the counter, you get me?" He suggested, but quickly realized one flaw with the problem as Patrick Sellers leaned as high as he could and still fell about a foot below the counter._

_Scooping Patrick easily, he held him, giggling and squealing, up to the counter, making a few airplane sounds as he asked the kid what flavor he wanted._

_It proceeded like this for about half an hour. The teen never seeming to tire as he treated each child to a flight and an ice-cream cone. Even the older kids, who had said they were tall enough to see over the counter, (albeit on tip-toe) were given the same treatment. They smiled as they were set down, though they tried to hide it._

_Some thirty-eight children later, all that was left was Alfred and the boy. (Which it was natural for him to be shoved to the back of the line.)_

_Alfred gave him a serious look before kneeling down to him._

_The boy felt the smallest shred of fear grip his heart. Perhaps he didn't want to give him a plane ride because kids with no names didn't get to fly?_

_He was surprised when instead he was grabbed from the sides and tossed clean up into the air at least thirty feet._

"_RRRRROCKETSHIP!" the blond yelled._

_The boy screamed and laughed as he fell through the air, the weightlessness overtaking him as he flew. It was unlike anything he'd ever felt before. The trees were so much greener from this height. He saw the other kids looking at him in wonder. A flash of golden hair greeted his descent._

_In an instant it was over and he was caught easily in the safe arms of the teen._

"_Was the mission a success space cadet?" he asked seriously and the boy broke out in a wide grin, probably for the first time in a long while._

"_Woah, nice catch man." The ice-cream server said with a gob smacked look on his face like he didn't believe his own eyes._

"_Thanks," he said with a quick smile, brushing off the praise._

"_So whatcha want?" he asked looking intently at the child, like the answer would solve world-hunger._

"_Chocolate!" he giggled as he wiggled in his arms, before being relinquished back to earth._

"_Two chocolate's please!"_

_Glancing at the pair, even Jim, the ice-cream man, couldn't help but feel the warmth that was emanated between them._

"_These last ones are on the house." _

"_Wow! Thank you," the teen counted a few bills out and passed them to the other man, who didn't even count them before putting it away._

_The ice-cream man looked at the pair with something akin to wistfulness; before he shook his head, pulled the doors closed on the sunlight and drove away._

_The teen and Mozzie meandered back to the stoop, each slurping on the ice-cream. The Blond was sucking loudly on the melting trail on the side, whereas the boy took measured bites, savoring the treat, like it was his last; the irony of savoring a food that melts was something neither of the boys gave thought to._

"_They aren't going to like this," the boy said, looking at his companion with some thought._

"_What? Giving ice-cream to kids?" There was no doubt in his mind that what he had done was border-line Mother Theresa._

"_Not exactly. Just giving all the kids sticky, messy, sugary treats that will probably keep them up all night; they don't usually like that anyways."_

_The teen, once more, decided to ignore any and all implications._

"_That's a very nice teddy bear. What's his name?"_

"_He hasn't got one," Mozzie informed him. The teen didn't look that surprised, but rolled his eyes and insisted they named him right now. When Mozzie looked towards him he just gestured back towards the bear._

"_Why don't you give it a go?"_

_The boy stared long and hard into the button-eyes of the bear before making his decision._

"_Mozart."_

_The teen sweat-dropped a little._

"_Not bad for a first try," he amended. _

_From the corner of his eye, he noticed one of the kids from before edging closer to the pair of them. He easily read the intentions in his heart and smiled._

_It seems his work was done here._

_In perfect timing he heard the familiar screeching approach of a car rounding the corner._

"_Looks like I gotta go, man."_

_The child-no. Mozzie looked up at him with a calm face._

"_You aren't human, are you?"_

_A true smile broke clean across his face._

"_No, I don't suppose I am."_

"_What are you then?"_

"_I'm-" _

_The shouts and cheers of children, mixed with the whistle of the wind and the roar of the world around them. The shuffling of the grass echoed against the hollow area of a passing bus. Rivers and oceans were passing by like the clouds and the people, all at once, seemed to be speaking, crying, laughing shouting and Mozzie understood._

_With one last quirky smile, the teen jumped from the stoop and shouted over his shoulder,_

"_Catch you on the flip-side, Mozzie!" And he went running down the side-walk, a black car with tinted windows hot on his heels._

_The no-longer nameless child watched him go, with the kind of understanding of impossible things that only children can possess._

_Billy Nipp, approached him slowly._

"_Was that your brother?"_

_Mozzie shook his head._

"_Kinda."_

_They stood there for a minute._

"_Did you want to play cops and robbers with us no-name?" He invited, showing courage beyond his years._

"_Mozzie. My name is Mozzie." He told him._

"_Oh. I never knew. Hi Mozzie."_

"_Hi Billy."_

"_I think if we're the robbers then we should set up a secondary home base apart from the first one where we can all meet and plan while the cops chase us. Like behind the bush because Suzy's allergic to the berries and she always plays cops. I think it's a little sexist that she always gets to be a cop and no one says anything, not that anyone was asking me, but-"_

_All it took was a little time, a little patience, a little understanding, a little push, and a little ice-cream._

_It was a wonderful day to be alive._

* * *

><p>Thank you so much for reading! I would love to hear what you think about my interpretation of this.<p>

Also, if you recall, Mozzie never learned Alfred's name, so it is no wonder he never put the face of the teen of the past, with Neal's description of him.

**RE**view?

More is coming soon! I promise!

* * *

><p><strong>OMAKE!<strong>

Beat crazy cat-lady nine times out of ten.

(That wasn't to say that Neal hadn't been subjected to many a scheme involving feline ends.)

"I'm doing her and them a favor by taking them, besides, she won't even notice they're gone. I'll just leave them on her roof and she'll probably think they wandered up and got stuck up there. It's the perfect crime!" Mozzie exclaimed.

"Mozzie! Don't take out your dislike for Ms. Kenly on the cats!" Neal admonished with mild horror. The other man just sighed. None of his plans to get rid of the cats seemed to go over smoothly.

"Everyone's a critic! You didn't like my plan with the car-"

"Mozzie it was inhumane-"

"-didn't like my plan with the airplanes-"

"-they're only cats for heaven's-"

"-and wouldn't even hear my plan for the nuclear reactor!"

Neal deadpanned.

"That's it. I'm calling the Humane society."

"What she does is inhumane!" Mozzie cried righteously as Neal started dialing.


	8. The Day of Red Cardinals

Hey everyone!

I know, it is strange to hear from me so soon, but this chapter is one of my shortest yet. It is, in essence, the long awaited dinner. (Mostly long awaited by me, but still.)

Firstly, I want to thank my most amazing beta, Kanae Valentine, and her amazing help.

A big thanks to all you who read and reviewed! You guys helped me get this out quickly.

I listened to the EP by Iwan Rheon, "Changing Times" to edit this. Oh, and the band, The XX I love that band to pieces.

Frankly, I am a little bit nervous about this one. The things that are revealed, I was never sure if I should reveal them or not.

But what's done is done.

It's up to you all to decide.

**I do not own anything. The lyrics to the song belong to Queen and whoever has the song-rights.**

(P.S I hope none of you are offended about who I am using for the quote, frankly, this is based on the words.)

(P.P.S. I do talk about religion a bit. *Le Gasp!* Nothing bad nor good. Just talk about it.)

* * *

><p>Chapter Eight,<p>

The day of Red Cardinals

* * *

><p><em>"All great change in America begins at the dinner table."<em>

~_Ronald Reagan_

* * *

><p>They stood in silence staring at each other.<p>

"Is it crazy to think that nothing's changed?" Mozzie asked,

"Nope. Pretty sure only the date has really changed. Well, you are a bit taller. And less quiet."

"You put on a few unless I'm mistaken."

"Have not!" Alfred defensively replied, "I just drank a lot of water today is all!"

"I was just kidding," Mozzie said with a smile.

"Right. I knew that . . ."

"So how much of your cover story is true? You're apparently in some sort of family secret thing?" he spoke semi-sarcastically.

"Heh, oh yeah. It's a pretty awesome cover story right!" Alfred exclaimed, before a pout overtook his face. "I told them that I should just fall in a meteor Clark Kent style, but they were all like, _noooo_! Something about people freakin' out and stuff and that I was too old to pull that off. Hmph, shows what they know . . . Anyways, this one's a pretty cool idea too, I suppose."

The sunny disposition had bounced right back.

"So is it true that you're being targeted? Is that even possible?" Mozzie asked, drifting into some truly unknown territory. All he knew was that the blond teen from his past was some immortal representation for America, other than that he was acting on presupposition alone.

"Yeah, it's lame but true. We don't think they know exactly _what _I am, but they're straying a too little close for comfort."

"So now you're being watched by Neal and Peter. . . It's a messed up world."

"Yes. Yes it is," Alfred agreed with a wild smile.

* * *

><p>Emerging from the steaming jets, feeling like a new man, Neal strode into the living room, where Peter was pulling himself off the couch, sensing that it was about time to go.<p>

"You ready?"

Neal inwardly rolled his eyes at the curtness of his partner, but nodded outwardly.

"Am I the only one who thinks Alfred's choice of clothes are . . ." Peter asked, trailing off.

"No. Definitely not," Neal assured him.

"Good. Just checking. I wasn't sure if it was a generation gap, or if he truly is just most likely colorblind."

"I would bet on the latter," Neal agreed, and they bother smiled at the slight expense of their charge.

"He's a brave kid though."

"Yeah," Neal said in a subdued manner.

"He shouldn't have to be," Peter announced brashly, in a way that was simply to admit it out loud, more than to tell Neal.

"I know."

Neal could sense that this would torment his friend for a long while, so he put forth a new promise.

"We will do better next time," Neal spoke resolutely. Statement. Fact.

Peter smiled ruefully.

"I think we'd be hard pressed to do worse."

Neal had no response for that.

Peter shook his head with a slight smile as he recovered himself from the diminished mood and rubbed his hands eagerly together.

"Now then, are we going to get on with this dinner or sit around here for the rest of the day?" Peter asked rhetorically as he moved down the stairs.

Neal followed closely behind and found Mozzie and Alfred, both caught with odd smiles on their faces.

Well that had gone much better than he had imagined it would.

"You guys ready, or what?" Peter asked, gesturing to the door, though hand hesitating over the doorknob. He turned back with a beseeching look on his face.

"You sure you don't want to change Alfred? We're all fine with waiting, really."

"There is nothing wrong with my clothes!"

* * *

><p>"See what happens when you don't let me ride shotgun?" Neal asked over Alfred's rising pitch. Peter just made a face.<p>

"_Got no feel, I got no rhythm__  
><em>_I just keep losing my beat__  
><em>_I'm ok, I'm alright__  
><em>_Ain't gonna face no defeat__  
><em>_I just gotta get out of this prison cell__  
><em>_Someday I'm gonna be free, Lord!_ "

Peterwas beginning to think it might just be worth all the extra shipping fees to just ship Alfred whenever they had to go somewhere. It would be better than this constant torture. At least he'd managed to get it off Taylor Swift when it had come on. That hadn't been too pretty.

Neal and Peter barely waited for the car to stop before flinging themselves out of it.

"Cool house," Alfred commented following after them in a much sedated pace.

"Thanks," Peter said dryly as Neal rubbed his temples trying to relieve a headache, as well as erase the past fifteen minutes from his mind. Not to mention stop the voices singing in his head

Elizabeth greeted them with Satchmo at her heels as they walked through the door. She kissed Peter chastely.

"Hello, Mrs. Suit!" Mozzie greeted jovially, with a beaming smile that the woman eagerly returned coupled with a welcoming hug.

"Hello, Mozzie. We haven't seen you in a while, have we dear?" she asked, and from behind her there was some indiscernible mumbling that sounded vaguely like-

"Mumble-mumble-never-long-enough-mumble,"

-but Elle decided to ignore that for the most part.

She then turned to Alfred and looked over him.

"You must be Alfred," she greeted warmly taking his hand in hers.

"A pleasure to meet you, ma'am," he said politely returning her firm handshake with a quirked smile.

"Please, call me Elle."

"Okay, Elle," he agreed, easy-going in nature.

"Have we met somewhere before?" she asked and he paused and made a show of thinking for a moment before shaking his head.

"No I don't think so . . ." he trailed off uncertainly

"Hmm I could have sworn I've seen you somewhere . . . . Well, never mind," she said pushing it off.

"Maybe just passing in the street," he suggested, and she nodded; that was always a possibility.

Sometimes his citizens would get such a strong feeling of recognition from meeting Alfred that he felt familiar to them. (And indeed he was.) But explaining something like that was a bit of impossibility. Hm, there was something nagging at the back of his mind. A distinct feeling that perhaps he had actually met her in person before was floating in him, but he ignored it for the moment.

"And who is this?" he asked scratching the dog's head, causing the canine let out an appreciative hum.

"That's Satchmo, but we call him Satch for short."

"He's such a good boy," Alfred rubbed even more.

"Oh, I like your shirt. _Frankie Says Relax_ was such a good song! I have one of those too, somewhere . . ." she trailed off trying to think of where it might have gone.

"Peter doesn't seem to like it," Alfred sniffed and Elle turned on her husband curiously.

"It's the purple pants that really concern me," Peter said with a look of exasperation.

"Oh you remember what kind of crazy fashions we had when we were kids. This is just Alfred's generation's time," his wife smiled affectionately.

"Yeah, Peter, you had the bellbottoms and those headband things, right?" Neal asked with a smirk and Elle smothered her smile.

"And you had Justin Bieber and Taylor Swift, right, Peter Pan?"

"Alright, that's enough of that," Elle said moving them along, as well as cutting off the retorts. Lord knew how long they could keep it up if they were left alone.

She shepherded them to the table to wait while she put on the finishing touches for dinner.

"Smells good honey," Peter complimented taking his seat at the head of the table.

"Can I help with anything, Mrs. Suit?" Mozzie offered as Peter glared at not having asked first.

"Umm, I need someone to set the table," she said bustling around the kitchen and Mozzie smiled at Peter before he rose to help her.

"Anything I can help with?" Peter asked.

"Nope, I got everything else covered," Peter turned away trying not to appear sulky about it.

"So, Alfred, what do you do for a living? Are you in college?" Elle asked from the kitchen.

"No I have a job," he said.

"No collage?" she asked and there was a trace of worry in her tone that made Alfred smile.

"My job is all that I could hope for. I doubt I'll be considering a job change anytime in the near future." It really was. He didn't think he would ever want a more awesome job than being The United States of America. Well, being water would be pretty neat, but his boss still hadn't gotten back to him on that.

"It still doesn't hurt to have options," he could hear the slight frown in her voice. He was touched that she cared for a total stranger. (Not the truth as he was sub-consciously connected with all of his people, but as far as she was aware.)

"Wait, you have a job? What job? They never told us you had a job. . . . were we supposed to take you there today?" Peter asked feeling frantic, and sure Hughes was going to give him an earful.

Alfred just smiled easily.

"It's all cool; they're going to ship my paperwork to me so I don't have to go to work. I swear that that's all my job really is; piles and piles of paperwork," he said groaning. Peter smiled knowingly.

"Isn't that a security Hazard?" Mozzie asked. Peter looked past him and at Neal.

"You told Mozzie?" he asked and Neal just raised a brow.

"Did you tell Elizabeth?"

"Ahh, touché." Peter acknowledged.

"Still not very safe," Peter continued, flicking his gaze to Alfred, who shrugged his shoulders.

"Alex said he'd handle it, so I can only assume he thought of some awesome camouflage like a Pizza delivery-man or something."

"Yeah . . . Let's hope he's a little more creative than you are; I don't want the pizza-boys swarming to my house," Neal said groaning inwardly at the idea his love life would be non-existent this month. Alfred pouted.

"I am so creative," he muttered "You should have heard my awesome idea to stop global warming! We could genetically engineer a giant hero to swoop down and save the earth!" Silence followed his proclamation. Elizabeth's arrival was a welcome one.

She walked towards the table balancing two dishes with heat pads and both Peter and Neal jumped up to help her.

"Thank you," she said taking her seat on the other side of Peter and Neal.

They each sat there still for a few moments before Elizabeth smiled and said, "Well dig in!"

Peter, Mozzie and Neal passed the dishes around serving themselves generous amounts and she was pleased that her cooking was well appreciated. Alfred sat for a moment with his hands folded looking down.

"Oh, I'm sorry I had no idea you were religious!" she exclaimed and copied his posture.

"Peter!" she hissed and he jumped but acquiesced. Neal bent his head shutting his eyes, but he popped one open to observe Mozzie who was just staring at them.

"I'm Jewish," He explained as Elle and Peter took a moment to look at him too. Neal raised an eyebrow.

"Well by blood . . ."

"You can pray in your own way," Neal said and Mozzie finally bowed his head and crossed his arms. They were quiet for a few moments, each thinking their own thoughts.

The silence was a truly welcome one after such a trying day. Peter hadn't realized how loud it had been until this moment, in the sanctuary of his own house. He cracked one eye, and stared at the other occupants of the table.

It really was a miracle that three of them were still here.

Peter found himself truly thankful for the time they had been given and what they had left.

Eventually Alfred clapped his hands, starling Peter who was deep in thought.

"Well, let's not let this wonderful food go to waste!" he said piling food onto his plate.

After a few moments filled with the sounds of scraping plates and clinking silverware conversation started up.

"So are you Christian then Alfred?" Elle asked politely, picking up a bread roll from the basket. "Bread anyone?" she offered and she passed them out accordingly.

"Mostly. I practice a lot of different religions, but I guess I kind of practice the Christian most," he answered thoughtfully and Elle looked at him curiously.

"That's pretty unusual."

Alfred just nodded and shrugged. He just did what he did.

"So I know what Peter does for a living but what do you do? Or is it like Mozzie says and you're a suit too?" Alfred asked and Mozzie shook his head.

"No, no she's not actually a Suit; she's just married to one, hence '_Mrs. Suit,'_" he elucidated with a flourish of his hand.

"Ohh so it transfers with marriage. . . I see now," Alfred nodded his head solemnly and the room broke into smiles.

"Being Mrs. Suit is just my night job. I'm an event planner by day," she commented with a wink, and a shared smile with Peter. Alfred was struck by the awesome idea of a super hero from her sentence.

"Cool," he commented, his thoughts floating away to a theme song, Ahh and there would have to be an awesome costume design too, with nice bright colors. She had the figure for spandex . . .

"It's gotten some pretty big success recently," Peter smiled taking her hand, simultaneously drawing her gaze and snapping Alfred out of his thoughts.

"She has excellent taste," Neal chipped in, "Her venues are absolutely fantastic," Elle brightened at the praise.

"Oh, you guys," she said in a thankful, bashful tone.

"Maybe you've heard of it, it's called Burke Premiere Events."

Alfred blinked and then smiled. "That's where I know you from! You helped organize that fundraiser the President threw a couple years ago!"

Her eyes lit up with remembrance.

"The ones for the orphanages?" she asked brow furrowing in confusion.

"Yeah! That one rocked, way better than some of the ones I've been to. They can make 'em pretty boring," Alfred had a twisted face.

"You were there? Wow. How'd you manage to snag an invite? The party was pretty exclusive," she remarked impressed and incredulous at the same time.

"The Prez made me go. He said something about it being for the good of others and stuff," he sighed. "It wasn't as bad as I thought it would be though, the music was really awesome. It must be hard to find a jazz band now and days." he nodded his head knowingly, "And the bar had a really fantastic selection. The barmaid made me an Amber dream and I haven't had one of those in aaaggggeess~!" he stretched the last word and took a sip of the water glass.

"What, do I have something on my face?" he asked and poked his tongue out and stretched it every which way searching for the food. They just stared.

Probably the strangest string of words they'd ever heard.

The first few seconds of silence gradually evolved into minutes, as Elizabeth gathered her thoughts together.

"Are you saying you talked to the President, as in had an actual casual conversation, and he made you attend a fundraiser that most people were lucky to be invited to, and that you spent most of the time at the bar, speaking of, how old are you again?"

Her pitch had slowly climbed as her rant got longer and she was panting slightly by the end of it and Alfred stopped licking for a moment to regard her. The other three looked torn between mute shock and worry for Alfred when Elizabeth found out he was only nineteen. (Not to mention that Peter's goose would be cooked if she found out he had let Alfred have a beer.)

"Well I work with the Prez, so I guess it makes sense for me to go, and people love helping orphans so I suppose that's why it was so competitive to get in," he stroked his imaginary beard thoughtfully. "Also, Why'd you put a bar there if you didn't want people to use it?" he countered and Elle opened her mouth to say something but Neal cut her off with a question.

"When you say 'work with the president' you don't actually mean . . ." Neal asked trailing off.

"Well everyone kind of works for the president in one way or another," he commented philosophically. At the receiving end of their glares he quickly amended his statement. "I do whatever needs doing, ya know? Like giving him advice if he needs it, watching his kids, getting him his coffee and doing some of his paperwork, which is waay more than you'd think considering he's like the president and all . . . I suppose if I had to put a title to it, assistant seems to fit best," he answered though he knew it was so much more than that.

They were friends; they were companions; they each achieved their goals for America through the other and they each left a piece of themselves in each other. Alfred was filled with pieces of all the fantastic men he had known through his many years. His good friends. He smiled at the thought and a warm feeling overtook him.

"Is it true they experiment on whales to try and tap into their sonar to figure out how to read people's minds? Or have they done that already?" Mozzie asked and Peter resisted the urge to hit him over the head.

"No, I don't think so . . . I'm pretty sure we stopped caring about the whales a while ago," Alfred put some actual thought in the matter, and Peter suddenly wasn't sure which one he was more tempted to hit.

"How'd you land a gig as serious as the president's assistant? I didn't even know that was a position," Neal asked feeling curious having never heard a mention of a president's assistant anywhere in the tabloids or the (debatably more reliable) rumor-mill. Alfred just shrugged.

"My family has always been close to the Prez; I just applied. If everyone knew about me and my job then it would make it that much more difficult to do," Alfred answered flippantly before smiling. "There's a reason you never run into the President in Starbucks. Part of it is because we had one installed in the building, and the other is that I get his coffee."

They didn't really know what to say about that. Disbelief was openly playing on their faces, and Peter decided to be the one to voice it.

"How do we know you're not pulling our leg?" Peter asked suspiciously.

"Well, he was at the party hon, the president picked the invite list himself," Elle responded, though still reluctant to believe.

"Wait, how do we know he was actually at the party and didn't just hear about it? It was all over the newspapers," Neal pointed out and they turned towards Alfred expectantly.

Alfred just smiled.

"Red Cardinals," he answered and Elle's mouth formed a little 'o' of surprise.

"I noticed them right when I walked in. An odd choice for the floral arrangements as most everyone who plans the parties goes with the classic red rose, it was pretty refreshing actually." Peter, Neal and Mozzie looked towards Elle for confirmation, and she nodded slowly.

"The event was the day after Valentine's day and the flower shop used the flowers I asked them to prepare and reserve, to fill the overflow of orders. In the end I had to use the Red Cardinals because they wouldn't throw off the color plan."

"Alright so he was there, but that doesn't guarantee he's telling the truth. I mean, a collage kid being the President's assistant? Can you imagine? I'm almost twice his age and-and I don't even want to think about what his pay-check looks like," Peter exclaimed throwing his hand up. Neal was bad enough living in that mansion for practically nothing, but a teenager getting paid a politicians salary was something he didn't think he could handle. His wife rubbed his arm soothingly.

"Well, I don't actually get a pay-check," Alfred commented irritably at all of their disbelief.

They stopped all at once.

" . . .Okay suddenly it's a lot more believable," Neal said ignoring Alfred's light glare.

"That sounds just like the government, taking the free labor-" Mozzie cleared his throat, "Oh, I'm sorry, _'volunteer work'_ where they can get it."

"But how do you support yourself, then?" Elle asked worriedly.

"Oh, he has a large inheritance to rely on," Peter waved the question away, remembering the fact from the file.

Alfred nodded in agreement. The truth was that the president just told him to take what he needed from the vault. He never liked the idea of taking very much from his own country, (It was kind of like stealing from yourself) so he only took the bare essentials. Most of the stuff he had was gifts from the various people he had met through the years. Those that learned his secret and of his immortality always wanted to give him stuff by which to remember them. Knowing that they would be immortalized just by him having it. He shook his head, warning away the flood of memories that threatened to swallow him.

"So you all believe me now because you think the government is stingy enough to accept the free labor where they can get it?" he asked.

"Yep, just like I thought," Mozzie was nodding his head knowledgably.

"Are you kidding? They would be stupid not to," Neal logically pointed out.

"Have you seen my pay-check?" Peter exclaimed in a huffy manner.

"I'm going to have to agree with them on this," Elizabeth said, with a semi-guilty smile on her face.

Alfred sweat-dropped, these were his people and he loved them, but sometimes . . . He shook his head like a parent who has done all he could, and just washed his hands of it by the end.

"You people are insane."

They broke out into laughter and Alfred joined in after a moment.

Several seconds later, Elizabeth's smile faltered as something finally registered in her mind.

"Honey, did you say '_teenager_' a few seconds ago?" Peter's happy face fell right off, and he nervously answered "yes." He wouldn't be surprised if she guessed he had let Alfred have a beer, she had senses like that. Instead she stared seriously at Alfred, who answered with a bursting smile, and a swirl of his very full wineglass.

"Alfred?"

"Yeah."

"How old are you again?"

"Technically? Nineteen."

"I see . . . Technically?" Elizabeth asked,

"You see I have this rare condition, it's like uh . . . reverse leap year! So I should have like seventy years or something," he said nodding rapidly. How did you tell people that you were over a century old without telling them you were immortal or explaining why you looked like you were still nineteen? Alfred didn't know, but one day, someone would write a book about it. Eventually anyways.

"Right . . ." Elizabeth said sucking in a breath.

"Peter, what were you thinking giving a nineteen-year-old alcohol!" Elle demanded and Peter shook his hands wildly. How had she known?

"Look, I didn't even think about it, he grabbed it himself. Besides, he can certainly hold it, so it's not like this was the first time he had it or anything." If anything, her glare actually intensified.

"Oooh! Pe-teeerr! You're in trouuuble!~" Mozzie sang childishly, not even bothering to hide his amusement, eliciting a laugh from Neal.

"I don't care if his family bathed him in wine! You cannot give a minor alcohol!" Alfred was just laughing hysterically at Peter. He wiped a tear and pulled out his wallet.

"It's okay Elle, I have a permit." He said smiling as the fed turned his suspicious gaze towards Alfred. He plucked the card from his hand and scanned over the contents.

"Why do you have a permit to serve and drink alcohol?" Neal asked glancing over at it from beside Elle.

"Wouldn't a fake ID be easier to forge?" Neal ignored Peter's look.

"Nah, this is authentic. Besides why would I need to forge something if they just give it to me?"

"They give it to you, just like that? That sounds too good to be true." Mozzie was looking very suspicious at this point.

"I have to attend a lot of boring dinner parties for my job, so my boss wants me to be as comfortable as possible. Plus he got sick of vouching for my drinks," Alfred smiled.

Peter just rubbed his head.

"It's still just so weird to think that you're talking about the president," he commented, still traces of a mix of amazement and disbelief in his voice. Alfred just shrugged his shoulders.

"It is what it is," he stated simply, like it was just one of those facts of life. To him, it was.

* * *

><p>Neal was tucking these little details away in the back of his mind for later. Mozzie should be able to find some info on him by this point, so Neal made a mental note to ask him about it later. Plus, Neal was curious about any of the things they had talked about when Neal was up taking a shower. Lord knows what little things a pro like Mozzie could dig up.<p>

The rest of the dinner went off without a hitch, with some excellent wining and dining. (Stern "no's" to Alfred when tried to grab another glass for himself. Not even the permit would protect him from Elizabeth's motherly instincts)

'_Those two are going to make quite the parents,'_ Neal thought with a smile.

Elle had started on the dishes, but she was quickly shooed away from the sink by Peter and Mozzie who seemed to be in a competitive mood about who was more helpful.

Neal and Alfred had been quite comfortable to watch them from the couch over a glass of wine.

"To good food and good company," Alfred said sticking his glass to Neal, who clinked it in agreement. Just as he was about to take a sip, Elizabeth appeared and plucked it from his hands.

"Yes, I agree," she said sipping from it.

"Oh, c'mon! I showed you my license! I'm allowed to drink. Hell, I could even do service for you," Alfred whined.

"Alfred, now while I may not be able to control what you drink outside of my house, I can while you are and no 19 year old will be drinking under this roof," she spoke in a no-nonsense way and Alfred just pouted. Humans were so weird.

"You know, I had no idea you were so knowledgeable about flowers Alfred," Neal commented while he idly drank his wine.

"That's true! Red Cardinals aren't exactly a common flower," Elizabeth spoke with a smile "Not like Roses or Daisy's."

"I'm not really an expert. But my mom, ah, she used to use 'em all the time for medicines and stuff," Alfred smiled.

"That's pretty unusual. Was she an herbalist of some kind?" Neal asked and Alfred nodded his head, albeit hesitantly.

"She used to send me to go collect them while she would work on her herbs. She told me I was strong so and she needed a strong boy to help her gather her medicines. Mmmm I loved helping her," his eyes flickered to Elle. "But then ah . . ." He stopped, before starting up again. "You remind me of her a bit."

Maybe it was just how she looked. Her long dark hair that felt like silk. Though his mother's skin was dark, like the earth she so loved and Elle's was like cream. Despite the fact that the eyes were different, he found the same look was held in them. The caring kind, which nurtured things.

She raised him and Mattie and taught them to survive. She had told Alfred he was strong and that he needed to watch after Mattie. He made it his goal to always be strong and it has reflected in the way he had grown. He looked at his hands.

'_Am I strong mom?_' he thought.

"So what happened to her?" Neal prodded gently.

"One day she just wasn't there anymore. As I grew, I started to push her away trying to make my way in the world. Eventually she became weaker and weaker. By the time I realized what had happened, she was gone."

Elle looked horrified and Neal looked remorseful.

"Oh my gosh! Alfred that's terrible!" Elle said jumping up and catching him in a hug. He was momentarily surprised but he wrapped his arms around her fondly.

She felt the feeling of intense kindness, community and love, that he was channeling. Thinking of his mother always brought that out in him. He broke it off quickly though, taking a moment to rub his glasses, more due to habit then anything else.

"You don't need to worry about it." He said, sensing his people's discontent with the sotry. He placed an overly wide grin on his face that even Elizabeth could see was forced.

"Besides it happened a long, long time ago. "

* * *

><p>Hey! So I hope you all liked the chapter! I was in fact referring to Native America above. I've always loved the idea of her.<p>

Red Cardinals are indigenous to the Americas and are in fact used in herbal remedies still today, as well as in the past by the natives.

Mother Native America is pretty dope.

Insanely sad, but very dope.

I hope I played this out well, we will see how they deal with this new knowledge in the coming chapters. as well as the effect that happens between Mozzie and Neal with that secret between them.

We should be seeing some new visitors sooner rather than later.

Once again, thank you so much for reading and I would love you more if you reviewed.

If you liked it, review or else I won't know! Hated it, tell me more, tell me more! And tell me why! Really, just review, because I am very nervous for how this chapter panned out.

So,

**RE**view? Please?


	9. A Daily Call of Duty

Hey everyone! Wow, you are all some really amazing people! Thanks so much for every review I've gotten, I really love reading them!

Special love to Kanae Valentine for Beta-ing for me!

I'm listening to Iwan Rheon today.

Also! Someone is doing some fanart for me! I'm very excited to see it! If they are cool with it, I'll tell you all where you can find it if they're cool with that!

OTHER CHARACTERS FINALLY APPEAR! (kind of . . . .)

I don't own Hetalia. Also, the lyrics to the song belong to the proper owners who are not me. I also don't own "Call of Duty"

**IMPORTANT!**

Japanese - **Blah,**

Italian - Blah

Swahili - **Blah**

Hope you all like it.

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><p>"<em>What's right about America is that although we have a mess of problems, we have great capacity - intellect and resources - to do something about them." ~Henry Ford<em>

* * *

><p><em>Chapter 9<em>

_A daily Call of Duty_

* * *

><p>Mozzie was acting odd.<p>

Odder than usual.

And this fact might as well be a signal for the approaching apocalypse, because when talking about Mozzie, that certainly was saying something.

Now, Neal—it had been said—was a pleasure-seeking creature of unhealthy proportions. Most of his endeavors were laced with promises of immense self-satisfaction when his plans finally came into fruition. And he certainly was good at what he did. As could be seen by his fame and fortune, (though the latter was carefully tucked away in several secret locations.) He had much success, which was not to say that he was very egotistical. Confident and arrogant were entirely different languages in his book with no correlation between them.

Pride to him, was a coat to be shed in any company that deemed it necessary. He didn't mind putting himself below other people when the need arose. Often times, to get a perfect mixture of pleasure and heart-pounding thrill, he had to cater to the needs of a crowd, which were very self-involved. He had to play their egos and pump their confidence. Then, when they least expected it, he would rip the carpet out from underneath them and run like he was fleeing angry mobs.

Despite this, Neal took pride in knowing people. It was the one honor he could not disallow himself. To do that would be deluding himself.

Of all the many people he knew, he would have said that out of the great world, he knew Mozzie the best. A few days ago, that response would have been delivered with a smirk and a saucy grin. Today if you had asked him, you would probably still be staring at him wondering when exactly he was going to answer.

Neal wasn't sure when exactly it had changed, but he did know that it had something to do with Alfred F. Jones.

Ever since the two had met, Neal couldn't seem to get Mozzie alone. Since the day of the fire, Hughes saw it fit to give them the rest of the week off, so they had a very extended weekend that they were gladly indulging in. At least, Neal would be if he wasn't occupied with the astronomical anomaly that was Mozzie's behavior. It started that same day Alfred and Mozzie had met, after dinner, to be entirely specific. After dinner he had subtly hinted that he had wanted to talk to him, and Mozzie had pretty much played oblivious the entire time, through all the laced comments, and subtle hand gestures.

One thing Mozzie certainly was not was oblivious.

Ever-paranoid and on-guard, Mozzie knew everything that was going on around him at all times.

Even, if by some astronomical reason Mozzie hadn't noticed Neal's intentions, then he surely would have on the days that had followed.

Neal had left him subtle glances, followed by texts, trailed by calls and finally succeeded by confrontation. Each spiraling into more conspicuous methods, thus knocking over a larger domino of even more noticeable actions. And yet, each time ended in swift evasion. Neal thought he must be going crazy.

It seemed like he was avoiding him.

But why would Mozzie do that? What had changed so quickly from being their closest confidants and muses, to not talking? The only answer Neal could think of was Alfred. But what did the appearance of the sunny blond have to do with any of this? He didn't know yet, but Neal was determined to find out.

It had been four days since the dinner when Neal decided to end the silliness.

To hell with tact and subtlety.

Pulling himself out from his seat at the table on the terrace where he had deigned to eat breakfast, he resolutely set out to get answers.

He already knew where Mozzie was; the only reason he came over anymore it seemed was to hang out with Alfred, and today on their agenda was video games.

Now, Neal had expected them to be terse acquaintances, or moderate friends at best. This demolished all of his preconceptions. He actually thought that he would probably have to pull Mozzie off Alfred when he tried to claw the teens eyes out at some point due to the simple fact that Mozzie and the Government just did not mix. They were like oil and water.

. . . And yet, instead here they were, playing some mindless violent video games like old friends.

The math just wasn't making any sense.

He had tried to talk to Peter about this earlier, but the conversation had been fruitless, and had gone something like this:

* * *

><p><em>~Earlier this week.~<em>

_Neal muffled a smile as he watched Peter curse. The fed had decided that since he would be here for a while, he would at least set up the TV so he could watch all his games. The plan sounded much better in theory. The actual act of putting together all the components was turning out to be more complicated than they had originally thought. By 'they,' he of course meant Peter, who had decided this was as much Neal's project as his own. Because Neal __really__ cared about who had the most free-throws and seeing it in HD._

_Anyways, he was doing his job and providing moral support from the couch._

_Mozzie had swooped up Alfred and they were cooped up in the teen's room, apparently chatting about comic books or something._

_Neal was borderline positive that his shorter friend was ignoring him. He decided to broach the subject with Peter, and see if he had any insight on the matter._

"_So, is it just me, or is Mozzie behaving kind of strangely?" He tried to keep his tone as casual as possible._

"_Hnn," Peter grunted in response, his hand was plunged elbow deep in cords and his head was poked in the bottom of the TV stand._

"_I mean stranger than usual?" He amended his statement, and Peter responded with yet another witty grunt._

"_He and Alfred seem to have gotten close, but how healthy can that be? They fuel each other's weirdness. Someone has to make sense, and it isn't going to be one of them." _

_It probably would have been easier to have a conversation if Peter didn't have a flashlight stuck in his mouth._

"_Besides that, Alfred works for the president, and Mozzie can't even say the word without shuddering."_

_Peter pulled the flashlight from his mouth and paused thoughtfully._

"_So that means that the red cord goes here then?" Peter murmured to himself unsurely._

_Neal made a sound of frustration._

"_Can you at least pretend to pay attention?"_

"_Sorry Neal, it looks like you got replaced. Is that any better?" Peter asked unsympathetic of Neal's latest plight._

"_Not in the least," Neal answered with a frown set on his face. Peter let out a sigh as he pulled himself from the bottom of the TV stand._

"_So what did you want me to say then? Your love for each other is eternal and nothing can bring it down? Look, Neal, I'm sure that Mozzie and Alfred are just being friendly. Eventually, the thrill of having a new play-mate will fade and they'll discover all the little habits that they'll grow to hate each other for and remain mutual acquaintances at best," Peter spoke the last part sarcastically._

"_Thanks? I think?" _

_The sad part was that this was one of Peter's better pep-talks._

_Neal was quiet for a few moments. Peter finally seemed to realize that this was weighing heavily on the other man's mind. He looked seriously at the other man._

"_Here, hold this steady," Peter threw the small flashlight to Neal who deftly caught it. He then gestured towards the box and stuck his head back into the dark cramped space._

_Neal wiped the handle that had been in Peter's mouth on a nearby towel, quickly though, so Peter wouldn't notice and give him grief._

_Reluctantly getting on his hand and knees, he pulled himself closer to the upper-right hand side of the box so he could shine the light down on the outlets._

"_Look, I don't think it's possible for you two to not be friends," Peter commented._

"_Neither did I, until now." Neal grumbled trying to angle the beam of light better, while simultaneously trying not to think about how expensive the suit he was kneeling on was. Hopefully he wouldn't wear the knees too bad._

_He paused._

"_He isn't talking to me Peter. That has never happened before- well sans the time when I accidently broke his copy of "__Flaming Tiles,"__ but those were special circumstances."_

"_You guys are closer than any two men have business to be. Really, I think he's just going through a little phase." Peter said unconcernedly._

_Neal rolled his eyes. They weren't that bad. (Right?) He pushed it aside, deciding to ponder it later, but now he had more pressing things to worry about._

"_Hold it steady," Peter ordered, tired of the light dipping in and out._

_Neal tried to keep his arm more still, but it was getting uncomfortable to continuously hold the flashlight in such a weird position._

"_I just don't really know what to do. Mozzie's always been there. He's probably been the only constant in my life." It had felt good to admit that out loud, but it just made him feel more depressed at the current state of things. Within the admittance there was the underlying message, one that was held even closer to his heart._

_Mozzie was his only true friend._

_His many persona's had unnumbered friends, in accordance to their personality, but what friends did Neal Caffery have?_

_He had Alex. But she was away more than she was here. They had been so close once, but he never knew if she had an ulterior motive. She was never the kind of woman to do things wastefully. He also knew she would do what she had to in order to preserve her freedom. Though it was probably true she would sell out a few people before Neal if she got desperate, she became unpredictable and no one was safe. He had placed his stock in her and he was hoping he wouldn't have to regret it one day._

_Sara was a very pretty girl. But she wasn't a friend. She was someone he would occasionally sleep with. She was dating material, not friend material, and he refused to mix the two anymore. Not after Kate._

_Kate was his muse, she was his friend, his devotee, his confidant and he loved her more than he could bear to remember. They talked about everything under the sun and then some. He could never get enough of Kate and he thought about her every day with growing remorse. It was the little things that made him sad. He wondered about all the conversations they would have had._

_The recurring nightmares plagued him nightly. Her porcelain eyes __seemed to haunt his every thought. Now she was a source of pain. That in and of itself was something he could never forgive himself for; as unconscious as it had been._

_His thoughts were drawn to Peter. There was something so different about Peter. He was rough but there was a subtlety to his actions. Peter knew what people thought of him and would use that to his advantage. Neal had been caught off guard more than once by his friends' cunning and quick thinking. Through it all, he would never drag his family and friends into it and Neal admired that quality. But were they friends? Neal didn't know. Behind all the good-natured jokes and casual banter there was a tense level of distrust. Neither knew how well they could trust each other. Each day it was becoming more apparent, but they ignored it. In a way, Neal hated it. The façade was almost more than the reality of things._

_And then, on one summer's day, Alfred had wandered into their lives. He didn't know what to do with the boy; Alfred was such a wild card. He was unpredictable and betrayed __all of Neal's preconceptions. Sometimes he would say something that made him appear older than he was and the next second he would do something so childish he looked like a toddler. Not to mention the suicide attempt. __The numerous lies and his still veiled past were endless mysteries that would baffle most spectators. An enigma whose mind Neal couldn't even fathom._

_In the end it all boiled down to one question; was Neal willing to try and trust him?_

_The answer currently, with all the mystery that swirled around his blond head, was a sharp, but semi-resolved "no."_

_Then there was Mozzie, who had been with him for longer than Neal cared to remember. His finicky friend who wouldn't dare walk close to a federal building, who refused to use banks and couldn't buy his alcohol from the state liquor stores, Mozzie was his best friend. More reliable and trustworthy than any person could hope for._

_So it came down to a half-friend, a pretty girl, a dead lover, Peter, Alfred (?) and Mozzie._

_Frankly, Mozzie was the only one he didn't have to analyze for ulterior motives._

_In his crazy and unpredictable where games were played and lies were as common as dust, that fact was worth more than its weight in gold._

_He couldn't pontificate the finer points of Monet with Peter. He couldn't plan a burglary with Sarah. He couldn't laugh with Kate. He couldn't drink fine wine with Alfred. He couldn't just relax with Alex._

_Only Mozzie._

"_I have faith that you two can work this out. If not, then why don't you try and have a word with Alfred? Despite being so annoying all the time, he is a pretty nice kid," Peter suggested._

_Neal was reluctant at the thought._

_He knew it wasn't right to blame Alfred for the distance that had appeared between him and Mozzie, but Alfred truly was the only variable that had changed. Neal was always in control, but now there was a stain within himself; a stain of resentment._

_Neal hated stains._

_They were so ugly._

_And it was true. Alfred truly was a nice kid. It would be so much easier to hate him if he was a jackass._

"_Thanks for the advice Peter," Neal said, despite the fact there wasn't much in there that he hadn't already known._

"_Sure thing Neal," Peter replied, slapping his hands together eagerly as he tried to switch the altered system on. Swearing followed, as the screen remained dark._

_Another thing he needed Mozzie for, because Peter kind of gave crap advice._

* * *

><p>Neal climbed the stairs to his loft, but paused outside the door. The sounds echoing from the room had to be the weirdest attempt at a language as Neal had ever heard.<p>

Italian and Japanese in strange overlapping mixes were bouncing through the air and partially scarring Neal's eardrums. He took a breath before opening the door.

As expected, Neal and Alfred were both splayed out on the floor, Alfred on his stomach, eyes fixed intently on the flashing screen in front of them. They both had microphones attached to their ears and the controllers were practically glued to their hands. On the floor, there were numerous entrails of junk food and soda cans that Neal was positive weren't in his house when he went up for breakfast. Not to mention, that it looked like they had taken every pillow and blanket in the house, (every single room in the penthouse no less,) to the floor with them for comfort.

"Feliciano! Get my back! I'm surrounded!" Mozzie shouted as they blew up zombies. Peter looked on in morbid fascination at the amount of body-parts flying every which way as he sat stupidly on the couch.

"I don't even remember why you guys are killing the zombies anymore," Peter commented numbly as he watched the desensitizing videogame with abject horror.

"**We gotta protect the Pentagon!" **Mozzie shouted back distractedly.

"English Mozzie," Alfred said pointedly as he shot one of the undead clean in the face.

"**Oh yeah,** well we have to protect the Pentagon," Mozzie explained, switching his language to English so Peter could understand.

"Arfuredo-san! On your reft! One sripped past me!" The voice was coming from the television screen, and it was then that Neal noticed the two additional boxes that marked that two other people were also playing the game from afar. One of them was Japanese from the sound of it.

"What happened to my living room?" Neal asked in a delayed kind of realization that out of all the people here, he would be the one cleaning it up.

"Huh?" Alfred wasn't even pretending to pay attention. The artificial lights gleamed off of his glasses in an eerie kind of way as he tapped the buttons on the controls in a manic fashion. His tongue had poked past his mouth in a show of immense concentration.

Ignoring that for the moment, Neal turned his attention on Mozzie.

"Hey, Mozzie we need to talk." He tried to keep his voice as resolute as possible.

"**I'm kind of in the middle of something here,"** Mozzie pointed out, though his voice remained carefully neutral. Neal switched over to Japanese too.

"**Well it is kind of important."**

"**Can't it wait a few minutes?"** Mozzie asked.

Yeah, and the minute he finished playing, it would be another excuse.

"**You don't even like the Pentagon!"** Neal pointed out, the frustration finally showing through in his tone.

Mozzie had no response for that one.

Neal just let out a sigh.

"They got me. Ve ~" A calm voice said in total juxtaposition to the others who were obviously very worked up. This must be the Italian player, Neal thought.

"Don't worry, man! I'll avenge you! For Americaa!" Alfred shouted charging the zombies.

"Arfuredo-san . . .That wasn't your finest battle decision." The Asian sounding voice said and they could picture him shaking his head as Alfred was torn apart. Alfred let out a groan and let his head fall on the ground.

"**What have I told you about using 'san?'" **Alfred asked, though his tone was muffled by the carpet and blankets.

Neal could hear the hesitation from the Asian man on the line.

"To keep things informar . . ."

"Damn straight homie."

"It's just you and me Kiku, **let's do this!**" Mozzie shouted.

"Right, Mozzie-san!" the voice responded. Neal just shook his head, and Peter was looking at Alfred with interest.

"I didn't know you spoke Japanese," he remarked, and Alfred looked up and nodded noncommittally, though there was still a slightly miffed look on his face that he had lost the game.

"Kiku taught me," he said pointing to the screen.

"And Italian?" Peter asked impressed.

"Feliciano. In exchange I make sure Arthur and Francis stay away from him and his brother," he smiled at the last part and Feliciano had heard the statement.

"Ve~ England is soo scary!" He exclaimed and Neal looked over curiously.

What had the other one just said about England?

Alfred felt like smacking himself. Gotta act casual though.

"Hehe, yeah, Neal over here is pretty good at other languages too," Alfred explained, putting a cautionary note in his speech for Italy. It was so heavily emphasized that even the Italian man could pick up on it.

"O-oh really? That's fantastic! Learning other languages is so much fun! Because then you can talk to even more people! And more people can talk to you and you can all become great friends! And when you have great friends, then you can do all sorts of fun things together like making pasta! Though I had no idea that you had so many talented citi-"

"Feliciano!" Alfred cut him off. Neal's curiosity was more than piqued, it was engulfing. What was up with this weird conversation? Neal hadn't thought there was anything special about them saying 'England' but the reactions and Alfred's obvious pointed statement that Neal did indeed understand Italian and Japanese. They were hiding something, but what?

"Mozzie-san!"

"Oh crap!" Mozzie exclaimed, his lapse in judgment costing him, as the Zombies ate his flesh slowly.

"It's all you Kiku!" Alfred laughed, moving freely from the previous conversation.

"I think it's safe to say who the best is Am-Arfuredo-san,"" He said changing his sentence quickly, as he exited the game.

"For today maybe but the hero always wins in the end! A rematch later of course?" Alfred exclaimed.

"Of course Arfuredo-san. Who are your visitors?" Kiku asked politely.

"**Hello, it's nice to meet you, my name is Neal Caffery,"** He introduced himself in a charming manner, his curiosity overcoming his irritation with Mozzie for the moment.

"Ah! Nearu Cafuri? Are you the same Nearu who found those Jade Erephants a few months ago?" The excitement was palpable in Japan's voice.

"Oh yeah! I forgot about that!" Alfred remarked snapping his fingers together in remembrance, while garnering strange looks from Peter and Neal.

"I heard about it at work," he explained casually, as though he wasn't making a reference to his job at the White House where he was the assistant to the President of The United States. Peter got the overwhelming urge to hit Alfred over the head for his cavalier attitude.

"It was nothing really, Mister . . .?" Neal modestly deflected the thanks.

"Oh! Where have my manners gone? Please excuse my rude behavior! My name is Honda, Kiku. I do some minor work for the government over here."

"**It is a pleasure to meet you."**

"**Likewise."**

Peter's ears pricked up as he heard that Kiku worked in the government and decided to set the record straight.

"Um, hello? My name is Agent Burke and I was actually the one who found the Jade Elephants," Peter said, shooting Neal a look.

"And I didn't help at all?" Neal asked with a raised eyebrow.

"Maybe a little bit," The fed returned with a smirk.

"I wish to thank both of you, you have my immense gratitude." Then he switched the language, so to exclude the humans. **"America, I want to thank you to for giving them back without any kind of fight or compensation,**" Kiku said in Swahili.

"**No problem man, it really isn't a big deal.**"

"Do you know what they are saying?" Peter asked confusedly as they strange vowels and sounds went right over his head. Neal shook his head.

"I think it's an African but I'm not sure," he said, never having learnt any languages from that area of the world.

"It's probably Swahili," Mozzie commented idly, and the two whipped their heads around to him. Peter gave him a querying look.

"What? I recognize the dialect," he said noncommittally.

"Yeah, but do you understand it?" Peter asked, and when Mozzie shook his head, he sighed and set himself to be content with waiting until they were done.

"**Um, America**?"

"**Yeah Italy?**"

"**Is this the Neal Caffery who is that one art thief?"**

"**Uhm . . . maybe?"**

"**Germany's been telling me that that's what people do when the answer is yes, but they don't want to say it."**

That was definitely cheating! He couldn't use Germany to cheat not-being-able-to-read-the-atmosphere-syndrome! He sighed though, and decided to see ifhe could do a little damage control. Damn, he knew it was too big of a risk to play with Neal hanging around the house, but it wasn't like he expected this sort of thing to happen.

"**Uh, look, could you maybe not tell anyone? I don't think that it would go over so well," **America asked, knowing that more than a few countries would probably get upset or demand some things that Neal had stolen back. But America didn't have the right to charge him with the crimes. It was against his totally awesome laws. Not to mention, Neal had already (technically) been charged with the crimes. He couldn't really do anything about the fact that they hadn't found his stash. (America wished they had, too. He knew that Washington's Love Letters were in there . . .) He could use his power to find where the stash was hidden but that was against the countries standard practice of ethics.

He was pretty sure that Japan would keep it a secret, because he seemed very pleased that he had his Jade Elephants back. But Northern Italy had a lot of art go missing. He doubted that Feli would act on it, but if he let it slip to South Italy or France, then America had no doubt that all hell would break loose.

Laws or not, you did not get between those men and their artwork.

After a few moments of tense silence, and some awkward exchanging of glances between Neal, Peter and Mozzie who could sense the mood, but couldn't explain why, Italy broke the silence.

"**Don't let my Brother find out. I'll try and keep it a secret for as long as possible, but I doubt that will be long . . ."** Italy spoke slowly, with a conviction and decisiveness, which was usually not attributed to the smaller man. After all, though many of the countries forgot, it _was_ Feliciano who ran the national side of things.

"**Aw geez, man! Thank you so much!"** Alfred thanked the peninsular country earnestly. That had definitely just saved him much heartache and paperwork. (At least for a little while anyways.)

In the background, there appeared to be some hushed voices talking to and fro.

"Ah, it does appear that Fericiano's boss has appeared. Prease excuse me," Kiku said.

"See ya later, homie!" Alfred called, and there was a moment of static as the microphone was disconnected.

"Ve~ We'll play later! I have so much fun playing with you guys; we should get Ger- Ludwig to play! He's so amazing at this stuff!" the Italian said and Alfred let out a hearty laugh.

"He does have a knack for it. It might be fun to play teams."

"But, if we invite him, that means Gilbert will want to play, too, I suppose. He's not always very nice to Ludwig," Feliciano said mostly too himself, and Alfred got this fiery look in his eyes.

"It was still undecided from last time who exactly was the awesome-est of them all, so do it! Invite them! It will be a showdown of epic proportions!" Alfred exclaimed excitedly.

"He will be excited, too, though don't take it out on me when we play because I will be an easy kill!" The Italian pleaded, making Alfred laugh again, even more obnoxiously.

"Hahaha! Yeah, no promises man!"

"Ve~ that's what I thought you would say . . . Well, I really do have to go, I need to show my boss my new plan for the pasta restaurant in the capitol."

"Nice to meet you Feliciano," Mozzie put in.

"Ciao you two!"

Another static filled minute later, it suddenly felt much more empty in the room. The silence held for a few minutes before Peter decided to break it.

"And exactly _what _language was that?" he asked tiredly.

"Um, Swahili," Alfred answered.

"Oh, of course, Swahili, I should have thought of that," Peter commented sarcastically.

"Where did you learn Swahili from? Let me guess, you have a friend who lives there or something," Neal asked, raising an eye-broweyebrow skeptically.

"No, I learned from the internet," Alfred lied.

"Right."

There really was no end to surprises when it came to Alfred. Neal should know better by now then to expect anything else.

"Well, I think I'm going to turn in early," Mozzie said stretching his arms in an excessive show of tiredness.

"It's only ten thirty in the morning?" Peter remarked with a bemused expression. The bemusement quickly turned to suspicion, as it often did when it came to Mozzie.

"Just because you slept doesn't mean we did," Mozzie pointed out, and smiled mutedly when Peter looked at him like an absolute crazy person.

"I was on the couch the whole night! How did you do it without waking me up?"

Alfred started wildly laughing, before he began to carefully explain what they did last night.

"Listen Mozzie, before you go, could I have a word with you?" Neal asked, striding forward.

"Uhm, now really isn't the best time man, I'm really tired so I'll be really bad at listening. Maybe later?" Mozzie put forward.

"It will only take a second," Neal said with a tight smile.

"Man, I really would, but I seriously-"

"Stop it," Neal commanded, the frustration finally seeping into his voice. Behind him, Alfred and Peter had fallen quiet. Peter had a stony look on his face as he watched them.

"Look, I don't know what's going on recently with you, but whatever it is; it isn't an excuse to ignore me," The blue-eyed con man said with a look of such honesty that would rarely be found on his face.

"I'm not ignoring you," Mozzie was fiddling with the collar of his shirt; his brown eyes were darting everywhere except for on Neal. "I've just had a lot going on recently-"

"With Alfred?" Neal asked, the small note of contempt sneaking into his tone despite his best efforts.

"It isn't anything like that, I've just got some stuff going on is all. Look, I really have to go." Mozzie was already edging closer to the door and Neal felt his heart sink in his chest.-"

"Right, of course you do," he muttered the exasperation and irritation fully forming.

"Later," Mozzie promised, and Neal remained silent as he watched his friend slip out the door.

He let out a large sigh. Behind him, he heard the door to Alfred's room close, the lack of the teen's presence didn't bother him that much, and he wanted to take advantage of the moment to talk to Peter.

"What did I say? He's being so strange!" Neal exclaimed gesturing towards the door.

Peter frowned heavily.

"Look, I get that you and Mozzie are having some crisis, but be careful what you say about Alfred, the kid can hear, you know," Peter said disapprovingly.

Neal winced a little. He might have gotten a little carried away. He made a mental note to apologize to the teen for what he said. Not that he didn't think it was true, but that it really wasn't right for him to say it as loudly and insensitively as he had. His tact must have gone with his reassurance in himself and Mozzie.

"You're right," He acknowledged. Peter nodded before looking thoughtful.

"Are you sure you haven't done anything to make Mozzie keep his distance? Anything really government-y? You talked to a mailman recently?" Peter asked it jokingly but there was a thread of genuine curiosity. He was beginning to realize that there really was something abnormal going on here.

"No. I can't think of a single thing. In fact nothing around here has changed." _Except for Alfred. _The undercurrent was caught by Peter who gave him another disapproving glance.

"Really Neal, that's hardly fair,"

"But it is true."

Peter scoffed.

"Next you'll be blaming your parents," Peter muttered, and inwardly winced knowing it wasn't a very good subject with his partner, he moved to apologize, but didn't have the chance.

_"Dear kindly Sergeant Krupke,_

_You gotta understand,_

_It's just our bringin' up-ke_

_That gets us out of hand_," Neal spoke the lines with a smile. His expression turned to disbelief when Peter stared at him blankly.

"Haven't you ever seen West Side Story?" He asked in mild disbelief.

"Plays aren't really my thing," Peter said unbothered.

"It's a musical."

"Also not really my thing."

"They also made it into a movie."

"I think I've seen a few references to it in some of my crosswords."

Neal just sighed.

Peter really was no Mozzie.

* * *

><p>Inside his temporary room, Alfred was lying on his boring navy blue comforter and loathing himself as much as he was capable of.<p>

This was his fault. (Though it had obviously been an accidental side-effect.)

Mozzie was an man with an insatiable hunger for information. He wanted to be informed of everything and anything. Alfred was the jackpot. His world was an unnoticed one with undercurrents that the vast majority never realized were flowing. So when he offered to explain some things to Mozzie, it really was no wonder that the man was totally fascinated.

There was one thing that neither realized.

It was difficult for Mozzie to keep one thing from Neal. The more he learned, the more secrets he had to keep. He could hardly even face his friend anymore without the worry that he would let something slip. This knowledge he knew, without having to ask, was not something he could tell Neal. Alfred had to choose to show him.

Mozzie had taken to avoiding him, whoch was obviously just as painful.

Alfred could feel the suspicion and mild dislike radiating from Neal.

He couldn't help but think he deserved it.

But, he would make this right, like he always did. It would just take a little time.

Determined, he rolled over and pulled one o his hero notebooks from the nightstand beside the bed.

He would fix their relationship.

And there would be no doubt that it would be awesome.

* * *

><p>Sounds a bit ominous, eh?<p>

**RE**view?


	10. A Game a Day Keeps Old Age Away!

**Hi everyone! You are all so very awesome! Thank you for all the reviews!**

**Shoutout to Dragongirl114 because she always leaves awesome reviews but I just realized that I forgot to respond to the last one . . . . So I'll do that right after I post this!**

**Love to Kanae Valentine.**

**I've had a really hard week so far, so I'm really glad that I have this story to keep me going, and all the wonderful reviews that make me feel better.**

**I really love me some Frankmusik right now as well as some Brand New.**

**The song used is not owned by me.**

**I don't anything.**

**Enjoy!**

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 10<strong>

**A Game a Day Keeps old Age Away!**

* * *

><p><em>"An asylum for the sane would be empty in America." ~ George Bernard Shaw<em>

* * *

><p>It was a truth that was almost unanimously agreed upon, by the department of white collar crimes, (and probably most everyone else who had ever met him,) that Alfred F. Jones was a very special boy.<p>

In this case the word had all the warmth and humor mixed with the disgruntled annoyance and frustration that could really only be associated with a person like Alfred. From when he delivered coffee to everyone, precisely the way each individual liked it, (somehow, miraculously managing to make the burnt beans taste more than acceptable was a notable feat all on its own,) to the point that he kicked the leg clean out from underneath Dianne's desk, spilling her photo's, papers and coffee all over the office floor in a chaotic spread when he accidently stubbed his toe on it.

Peter figured he must have tripped and slammed his leg into the table but was evidently too embarrassed about it, because stubbing a toe surely didn't get that kind of result. (Well, he wasn't quite sure what exactly the kid weighed, but he didn't think it was that much.)

Throughout it all, he still had the dopiest smile on his face. Remarkable really, considering the fact that yesterday he had burned down a building.

Speaking of, the entire office had somehow managed to catch wind of the event of the previous day. Though most of the details had managed to stay under wraps, they understood the basic gist of it, and after a few queries about whether or not everyone was safe, the topic was a field day for every other officer.

It wasn't exactly the most kosher thing to make a joke about, but that's what they did; make light of the terrible, because in this job if you didn't, chances were you'd sooner be on your way to the loony bin. It was how people coped.

That didn't mean that Peter had to like all the little comments that were aimed in his general direction.

"Hey Burke, is something burning?"

The first time, it might have even been funny.

"Peter, you got a lite? Ah, maybe that isn't such a good idea."

The second time it was getting a little mundane.

"Oi, you got a little something on your face, oh, it's just soot, don't worry."

The third time it was pretty old.

"Burke! Did you hear the joke about the redhead, a brunette, and a blonde stranded at the top of a burning building?"

By the eleventh time, he was ready to crack some skulls together, or at least use his superior investigative skills to make them regret they'd ever even opened their mouth; either was acceptable at this point.

They hadn't been in that building and seen the messed up lives of Charlie and Michael, they had no clue of how twisted it was.

Peter meant to keep it that way.

Unfortunately, the title "Love-Child" was still the widely accepted name for their operation. Peter almost didn't think he could take much more of this.

The fact Alfred laughed at every single terrible fire joke that was sent his way wasn't really helping Peter's sanity along. Not to mention the fact that the teen didn't seem to get any of the "Love-Child" references, no matter how blatantly obvious they were.

Was the kid stupid? Probably. The only thing that helped Peter deal with it was the fact that most of the office reciprocated his feelings on the matter.

On the whole, they weren't quite sure if they wanted to hug him or slap him silly. At this rate, probably both would happen sooner or later. The rancorous laughter pierced through every wall on their floor, and probably a few above them. Lying down on the floor on the middle of the hallway was also a regular practice apparently. Not to mention the general shenanigans the teen seemed to get up to when Peter didn't keep a constant eye on the teen. For example, hiding Peter's cellphone in the ceiling panels when he threatened the teen with leaving him home next time they had work, (an admittedly shallow threat, but Alfred took it more seriously than Peter had ever imagined he would,) had taken about an hour of everyone's time inadvertently who had been forced to deal with Peter's frantic searching.

It was undeniable that he was growing on them though. As much as the majority was reluctant to admit, they found themselves smiling more and more at the teen as he flashed by, dead set on another strange quest.

Growing on them like moss.

Peter rubbed his forehead as he watched Alfred running away from him, as he trudged over to the break room to make himself a cup of coffee.

He cringed when he heard another crash.

Maybe more like fungus.

He glanced back as the teen knocked over another pile of paperwork absentmindedly as he stood up from his last fall, Peter turned away, not feeling like watching the destruction anymore. On a whim he decided to stroll around the bull pen as just check in and see what everyone was doing

Peter was blessedly alone (meaning without Alfred mainly,) for the moment and he planned to use it to try and relax, and maybe micro-manage.

Peter choicely strolled around the opposing side of the room where Neal's desk was not. It wasn't that he didn't want to see the con, it was just that ever since living together with Neal for their short while, it was rare that they got any time free of each other; as a result, Neal was as distant as he could possibly be at work, choosing to spend more time at his smaller desk in the bullpen. Peter was as grateful for the space as the con was.

With today as the only exception.

The problem was that Peter needed to talk to Neal about something.

Something that he really didn't want to have to talk to Neal about.

Procrastinating was something that bothered him with other people. Unfortunately he was also one of the worst offenders.

After a few minutes of checking in with his co-workers, he couldn't' help but peek back around the bullpen searching for the familiar blond head, reasoning with himself that he was just worried that the kid had broken another table, and decidedly not that he was concerned that he had hurt himself, (again.)

When he found that the teen was nowhere in sight he frowned slightly before shrugging it off.

He was probably off getting treats from Jan or something. She, like most the other women in the office found his boyish smile and ways charming, (most of the time,) and was constantly sneaking him rice crispy treats.

Then again, perhaps he had finally gotten around to fetching that file Peter had told him to get a few hours ago. (Of course that was just a ploy to get the teen out of the office, but if he had really needed the file, this would be damn inefficient.)

Neal stepped towards him confidently, with a quirked smile upon his face as he watched Peter's brow furrow. It was like he knew what thoughts were racing through his mind. God, Peter hated that look.

"I have no idea where he went, if you're wondering," Neal put forth, his grin only getting wider when Peter flashed a mild glare towards him.

"Well, I wasn't wondering," he told Neal coolly, turning back towards his office as if just to prove that he didn't care and was going to get some paperwork done.

"Of course. You were just glancing around every few minutes because your neck has a crink in it," Neal smirked.

"No, I was just making sure you didn't get light-fingered with the office supplies; stealing from the workplace is no joke," Peter mocked, drawing attention away from the actual subject.

Neal made a face. Really, him stealing office supplies? The very idea was ridiculous. While he still drew breath, that day would never come.

Peter was a bit concerned when he Neal didn't say anything in response, instead rubbing his forehead in a gesture that wasn't very common for the cool man. After knowing the man for as long as he did, Peter was beginning to catch onto the man's quirks and habits. The fact he failed to respond meant he probably had something else on his mind. Rubbing his forehead was a sign of stress or worry Peter had worked out. He had a good idea what it was that was bothering the younger man, but he decided to push the subject anyways.

"You okay Neal? You seem perturbed," Peter spoke, carefully putting the concern in his voice, so Neal would know he meant what he was asking. They stepped through the glass doors of Peter's office, and stood awkwardly in the clear room. It was secular and eye-inviting at the same time.

"Yeah, I'm fine, just tired is all," Neal answered after a few moments.

The fact that Mozzie still hadn't called him back had nothing to do with his tossing and turning, (or so he assured himself).

"Have you heard from Mozzie yet?" Peter dropped the question and Neal winced and shook his head silently

"I see. . . I'm sure he'll be back around in no time," Peter said comforting Neal awkwardly.

Damn. He had almost forgotten that his partner didn't have Mozzie to rely on at the moment. That made the news all the more terrible knowing Neal couldn't turn to Mozzie for help, comfort and advice. As if he needed anything else to make this harder to tell him.

Peter finally decided to just man up and tell him. Prolonging the inevitable would do nothing. The eldest sighed before gesturing to the chairs while rubbing his brow, searching for the right words to say.

"There's something I've been meaning to tell you. Why don't you sit down?" Peter invited, garnering a curious look that was borderline suspicious, as though he knew whenever Peter said something like that, the news was bad.

Peter slowly lowered himself into his office chair and was pulling himself closer to his desk as Neal sat at the usual place across from him.

"Look Neal, I- YAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHH!"

He rocketed from his seat as he felt something rub against his leg. A half-strangled cry of surprise fell from his throat as he shot up. Neal startled and looked at him concernedly.

"What is it!" he exclaimed, darting over to his partner, unsure of what to expect but figuring it would be the worst. Instead he found Alfred crouched underneath the desk in the little cubbyhole where you could stretch your feet. From outside the office Peter could hear a loud hustle of people getting to their feet and loading guns.

"Jesus Alfred! What're you doing under my desk?" Peter asked loudly, and there was a low swell of laughter from the people in the bullpen as they all relaxed, realizing it wasn't anything dangerous, and that Peter was safe.

The blond gave a very secretive shushing sound before gesturing the other two men to crouch down with him.

Peter was on the floor immediately, but Neal stared at it distastefully before grudgingly crouching down on his hamstrings, careful not to let his suit touch the floor.

"What is wrong with you? Who scares someone like that?" Peter demanded, though whispered partly because of what Alfred said, but mostly because he didn't think the rest of the office needed to hear him sort this out. (Really, he was already getting enough shit, he didn't need telling off a teen on top of that.)

"I'm hiding," Alfred spoke with a serious tone, but the wide grin on his face wasn't telling the same story.

"Are you playing hide-and-seek with one of the secretaries again?" Before the teen could even open his mouth, Peter was off again.

"What did I tell you about charming people to play with you? They need to get their work done," Peter lectured and Alfred just rolled his eyes.

"I'm not hiding from them. We finished that game a while ago, how Amanda found me when I was totally camouflaged in the freezer I'll never know . . ." He trailed off in confusion as Peter just gave him a deadpanned look.

"So who are you hid-" Neal started.

"Agent Burke?" The two men jumped to their feet as the intimidating, six foot-tall figure alerted them of his presence, having, of course, silently entered the room in true secret-service style; unnoticed and ready for any kind of espionage.

"Gah!" Peter exclaimed as he jumped up in an unflattering way. What was up with people scaring him today?

"What are you doing on the ground?"

Peter felt his face heat up in embarrassment.

"Dropped my pen," he explained, trying to regulate his heartbeat. Really, all these frights couldn't be good for his blood pressure.

Alex quirked a brow but said nothing about that.

"So what brings you to New York?" Neal asked, straightening himself smoothly from the ground. He already knew the answer. Honestly, what else could it be?

"I'm hereto deliver something, also to speak to the two of you," Alex made a cautionary glance around the room.

"Have you seen Mr. Jones?" He asked professionally.

After a few seconds of deliberation, Peter decided not to rat the boy out.

If Peter had Alex looking for him, he would have run away too.

"I think he's running around the bullpen somewhere. Probably charming more sweets from the secretaries if I had to venture a guess," Peter said casually. Alex let out a little sigh of relief. Yes, that sounded like Alfred alright. He took a deep breath to compose himself. Hardening himself, he stared at the two men with an intense glare.

"While he is away, perhaps you two might take the time to explain to me exactly how he ended up in a burning building?" There was an edge to his tone that told the two men that this was more than a little personal.

Peter and Neal exchanged looks.

"Well?"

Peter glanced at Neal for a little support. The other man just smirked.

'You're on your own,' it seemed to say.

Peter groaned.

"I take it you already read my report?"

The secret service officer nodded fervently.

"Yes, though really, it could do you some good to try and enlighten me as to why you thought taking a teenager into such a high-risk situation could ever be a good idea?"

"Well, it wasn't like we knew it would be so-"

"That woman was dangerous she could have hurt him! You even left her alone with Alfred, your teenaged ward! Where is the logic?"

"Look it was just supposed to be a brief check, we didn't think that-"

"No! I don't suppose you did think or else it wouldn't have happened now would it?"

"STOP IT!" Neal interjected between the two men. He leveled Alex with a probing look.

This man was too involved in the situation. This was too personal for him to be objective, and frankly, Neal was beginning to think that he was hurting the situation more than helping. He took a discreet look at the desk where Alfred was hiding. There was no way that this was good for him to hear the two men who were supposed to working for his protection yelling at each other. This whole thing was madness.

"Alex, I'm sorry we got Alfred mixed up in this, but we were just following orders. Hughes sent us and we went. It wasn't our decision that Alfred should accompany us on every mission. You know that. So why are you yelling at us?"

The blood in the other man's face slowly drained, leaving behind a pale and tired look. He sucked a deep breath before speaking.

"I know that," He acknowledged, rubbing his forehead tiredly, the other men remained silent as they waited for him to continue. "It's just that I hate not being able to do anything about this . . . I have no power in what happens to him, I just have to ship him off and hope for the best. I am sorry for yelling at you both," he apologized, some of the rigidity and control finding their way back into his speech though the sincerity was equally present.

"I understand where you are coming from. This isn't exactly ideal for any of us. We'll just have to try our best to weather this the best we can. I think we'll have a hell of a better chance if we start working together instead of yelling and threatening each other," Peter pointed out, a gleam entering his eye as he pointed out the threat that had been delivered to Neal earlier.

Neal couldn't stop the feeling of warmth that was growing in his chest, despite his efforts to tell himself it was just sentimentality that he didn't need.

It still felt nice.

"I agree. I think to start we should try keeping in touch a little more often so you can let me know Mr. Jones' status, as well as considering my suggestions for security measures,"

Neal supposed he shouldn't be holding his breath for an apology, and rolled his eyes.

"We've already discussed those. Why aren't I keeping someone else informed, I mean you must be really busy with your job, why aren't I keeping a parent or parent? I mean, isn't somebody worried?" Peter asked curiously. The level of involvement between the guard and their ward was incredibly high.

Neal reminded himself to ask Peter what security measures exactly had been discussed later, for now he would wonder about Alex's presence. He just couldn't believe that the president was sparing some of his elite guards to watch over some seventeen-year-old. I mean sure his protection was a priority, but they had a division specially tasked for this kind of thing.

"I have been put in charge of the safety of Mr. Jones and take my duties very seriously. If you must know, Mr. Jones doesn't have parents anymore."

Peter let out a small sound of surprise. How the kid could be so dopey and smiley all the time was suddenly more of a gift then an annoyance, albeit a loud gift.

Neal solemnly remembered the talk they had after the dinner at Elizabeth's house. It sounded like a sad tale indeed. He never knew about the father though . . .

"As such, his only remaining family members are out of the country and non-citizens, so informing them would be a risk, especially since they are not eliminated of the suspects list yet either. He should have no contact with anyone while he is here."

Neal wisely decided to ignore the phone call between him and Arthur and the video games with his various international friends. That would definitely fall under the category of a security risk.

"As to why it is a secret service agent like me taking care of this, well, all I can say is that someone up high has taken an interest in his protection," Alex alluded vaguely.

"So we've heard," Peter said.

Apparently the kid wasn't lying.

"So you've . . . what?" The secret service officer blinked a few times before growling. "What was that dummy thinking telling you that? That information is classified!" Alex exclaimed drawing several eyes from people passing by the office who heard the rising tone.

Neal suppressed a laugh. Poor kid. When Alex found him he was definitely going to be given a talking to.

The other man finally just let out a sigh.

"There's no controlling him, I swear," he then pulled a pen from the desk and scribbled on a business card before he stuck it out for Peter, who hesitated a few moments before accepting it.

"Okay, I will try to keep you more informed on Alfred, but I can't keep any promises on it when things get busy," Peter said warningly as he accepted the business card.

"Anything you can tell me is good."

Peter stared at the card. Written on it was a cell number so Alex could be reached beyond the office. Alfred really had a way with growing on people. That and getting under their skins like none other.

"So what is it you need to deliver anyways?" Neal asked, moving on to other subjects.

"I was supposed to drop off Mr. Jones' paperwork," he explained.

"I don't know what the chances of you finding him are, the last time I saw him he was playing hide-and-seek with the secretaries," Peter said, sparing the teen. Alex just rolled his eyes.

"You don't need to cover for him; he always hides when someone delivers his paperwork. At least there's a good chance he's still in this building, I've had to look for him in different states before," Alex said groaning at the memory as the other two stared at him with blank faces.

_"Somehow . . . I'm not really all that surprised_," Neal thought.

"Why don't you just leave it, we'll tell him that you dropped by," Neal suggested. Alex shook his head.

"He has to sign for it before I leave." He gesture to the clipboard in his hand that the two had previously missed.

Neal had the pressing urge to laugh for some reason, because the image of Alex as a delivery man was such a funny one, but he resisted it like a true gentleman.

"So if you see him, will you let me know because I-"

"**I'm awesome!**

**No you're not, dude don't lie**

**I'm awesome!**

**I drive around in my mom's ride**

**I'm awes-"**

The men stared at the desk where the sound was emanating. It was stopped with a beep a moment later.

Silence ruled the confines of the room.

Not even five seconds later, it rang again.

"**A quarter of my life gone by**

**And I met all my friends online**

**Mother***er I'm awesome!**

**I will run away from a brawl**

**I'm awesome!**

**There's no voicemail, nobody called**

**I'm awesome!**

**I can't afford to buy eight balls**

**And I talk to myself on my Facebook wa-**"

"Oi! West told me that you vanted to lose at some Call of Dut-ay!"

"Dude, Gilbert, this is sooo not the time- Owwww!"

Alex pulled the teen up from underneath the desk by the ear with a sigh.

"Hello Mr. Jones, how are you?"

"Yeeeowch! Geez Alex, did ya hafta pull so hard?" The teen asked rubbing furiously at the side of his head.

"Hey, vhat's going on over there?" The accented voice demanded.

"Uh, I'll call you back later man,"

"Hey! Don't hang up on awesome m-"

The blond flipped the phone shut with a click on the protesting voice. Alex looked at Alfred expectantly.

"So, like, it's kinda a funny story. I dropped my gum and then um-" his eyes darted away towards the door, which Alex was conveniently blocking. Said man raised an eyebrow in askance.

"Yes Mr. Jones? Do go on."

Peter and Neal watched on mirthfully.

"Well?"

Chances for escape were minimal unless he planned on breaking a little glass . . . the repairs would have to be paid with tax money.

Not cool.

One option left.

" Um . . . I plead the fifth?"

Peter could have sworn that Alex muttered "typical" under his breath, but that was silly people talk; secret service guards did not mutter.

"Then I suppose you won't mind if I talk a little bit," Alex said setting the teen down in a chair.

"Peter! Neal! Save me!" He cried.

"Sorry Alfred, time to face the music," Peter said unsympathetically, raising his hands to show that he would not be involved in this.

"Neal?"

"No dice, Alfred. He and Peter need to go see what Hughes wants," Agent Lauren Cruz announced as she stepped into the office.

Peter pouted inwardly. He kind of wanted to see Alfred get a talking to.

"We'll be back in a bit Alfred," Peter said, excusing himself from the situation. The trio walked around the bullpen to the familiar office that Hughes occupied.

Neal wondered what exactly Hughes wanted from him. Hopefully it wasn't a lecture about the whole Frampton incident. Really, there was enough lecturing going on here for one day. He just wanted to get it over with, knowing that no matter what it was, it would be an unpleasant experience.

On the other side of things Peter wondered if it was at all possible to whip up a miracle of the fire drill going off, or some kind of emergency that took Hughes away from work to a place that he could forget all about this stupid, stupid idea. Though Neal's idea of the visit was a highly educated guess, Peter's was a well formed definite. And that definite kind of sucked.

But was he a man, or was he a mouse?

It was like he had said earlier to Alfred; it was time to face the music. No matter how unpleasant a tune it was.

If only it didn't taste so sour in Peter's mouth.

* * *

><p><strong>OMAKE!<strong>

* * *

><p>"So did you hear the joke about the redhead, brunette and the blonde that were stranded on top of a burning building? Well, it goes something like this;<p>

The firemen make it to the building in some stellar time, but the building is definitely beyond salvation, so they decide to try and rescue the three girls stranded on the roof.

Oops, they forgot to pack the tramp.

No biggie, they'll just use the blanket.

"Jump in the blanket," they yell.

The redhead, being the bravest, (and most Gryffyndor-y,) took the first leap.

Just as she is about to land, the firemen step cleanly away from her and she splats on the ground.

Ignoring this fact, they then call for the next girl to jump.

"You're kidding me right? I saw what you did to her!" The brunette points out skeptically, using her Ravenclaw-esque logic.

"No, no!" They cry,

"We just don't like redheads," The firemen explain.

The brunette takes a moment to ponder this. It did make sense logically.

I mean, the other girl _was _a ginger after all.

Deciding the chances were in her favor, the brunette took a swan dive . . . .

. . . . Right into the concrete where the firemen were standing a few seconds ago.

Only the blonde was left now.

The building was rapidly collapsing around her, so her only change would be with the firemen.

"Jump down!" They call.

"Uh-uh, I know what you'll do to me," She announced.

"Oh no, we Looooove blondes!" They cry,

Alas, she was Hufflepuff-ish in her ways of problem solving.

"No way Jose! I don't trust you," She declared,

"Put the blanket on the floor and take ten steps back!" She ordered.

The firemen sweat-dropped.

* * *

><p>"I have been put in charge of the safety of Mr. Jones and take my duties very seriously.<p>

From underneath the desk, they heard a rapidly spiraling laughter.

"Jesus Alfred what are you laughing at! You just revealed yourself you dummy!" Peter scolded.

"HEHEHE He said doodie though!"

Peter smacked him across the head.

* * *

><p>Neal had the pressing urge to laugh for some reason, because the image of Alex as a delivery man was such a funny one, but he resisted it like a true gentleman.<p>

"Mr. Caffery, are you well? You look a little constipated."

* * *

><p><strong>Hahahah!<strong>

**There is my lame attempt at humor!**

**I hope you liked this chapter! The mysterious safety precautions are on the way!**

**RE**view?


	11. A Particularly Pensive Day

Hey guys! Yeah, long time no hear from, and I am sorry about that. My laptop was in the shop, but it's back! And now I'm back to posting.

Thanks again to all my readers and especially to my reviewers! Happy late Easter!

I started watching "Supernatural." . . . Soo addicting!

This is kind of a serious chapter, but it is important. The next chapter guarantees at least one chuckle.

Special thanks to Kanae Valentine for being my Beta!

So here we are! I listened to "Pyro" by Kings of Leon at on repeat while I wrote this. So hypnotic.

**I don't own Hetalia, White Collar, Cannery Row, or Get out of Town. They all belong to their own owners. **

* * *

><p>Chapter Eleven<p>

A Particularly Pensive Day

* * *

><p>"<em>There is nothing wrong with America that faith, love of freedom, intelligence, and energy of her citizens cannot cure." ~Dwight D. Eisenhower<em>

* * *

><p>Neal immediately noticed the tenseness of the atmosphere as he stepped through the door.<p>

Though Hughes was definitely not the most easy-going man, (coughNOT-BY-A-LONG-SHOTcough) he wasn't one for unnecessary dramatics either which got Neal worrying that these were actually fitting of the occasion. Not the happiest from what he could read.

Lauren and Peter both moved to the leader's side, leaving Neal standing before him, feeling naked without Peter's presence.

"Caffery. Take a seat," Hughes said as he gestured to the chair with as much decorum as usual; that is to say: very little.

"No thank you, I'm fine standing," he said smoothly, his defenses shooting up in reaction to the strange situation. He shot Peter an inquisitive look, but the other man resolutely looked away from him.

"_Just what is going on around here?"_ he thought. It felt like the twilight zone.

"Fine. We'll just get into business then," Hughes sank back into his chair and folded his fingers in front of him like a man of great deliberation.

"We have been '_requested_'," The air-quotations were palpable, "by the boys upstairs to consider some more security measures for taking care of your charge." The look on his face told them all how much he liked it.

"Among their request for extra security cameras and the like for work, they also want to ensure that the charge can be protected at any time."

Neal felt some horror inwardly, but managed to make his pressing query seem more like a witticism.

"Alex isn't moving in with us is he?"

No one reacted. Not even Peter who he knew loved and tolerated his quirks with the deepest of love-hate relationships. Even Lauren would have usually covered her smirk with her hand. There was no easing the atmosphere today, and he set his face back into the smooth mask from before.

"No, he is not moving in with you Caffery," Hughes deadpanned before continuing,

"To ensure that the charge can be defended at any time, not just when Peter is around—"

"Sir, surely we can reconsider this," Peter interrupted softly from the side, giving one last vie for his friend.

"No we cannot!" Hughes snapped, "The orders have already been passed, and damn it if I don't like them either! But it's the cards we've been dealt; now we just have to play with them whether we want to or not!"

"Would someone tell me what's going on?" Neal demanded, with mounting concerns and panic. Something had everyone stressed and high-strung and whatever it was, it wasn't making Neal feel any better.

They all stared at him.

The room grew silent.

"They're issuing you a gun, Neal," Peter spoke the words quietly. Outwardly, Neal looked frozen; a picturesque man of snow, a snowman if ever there was one. Inwardly though, he felt his insides hollowing themselves out.

The sounds became muffled, like there was a thick wall of glass separating him from the outside world. His vision burred at the corners of his eyes and he felt the as though the grey was eating through everything. The color was falling out like sand in a sieve.

Distantly he heard the faint scratching of someone signing some paperwork.

"Burke tells me that you already know how to handle one of these, but you will have to log some time at the firing range," Hughes continued.

When Neal didn't respond, he just gestured for Peter to take him out and tell him the rest; Hughes had a department to run.

If he was capable of focusing on his surroundings, he would have noticed Peter guiding him out of the office, past a few querying faces and to one of the more secluded conference rooms. (One of the few that didn't have glass walls.) The older man lowered Neal into one of the chairs with more delicacy than could normally be attributed to the man.

The next thing Neal knew, a cold and heavy object was pressed into his hands.

Instinctively, he let it fall through his fingers without hesitation.

It clanked on the ground with a pounding sound, like a drum, it seemingly echoed through the close quarters of the enclosure.

He didn't notice Peter move beside him, kneel down and retrieve the cold item from the floor and press it as softly as he could manage into Neal's hands. Like the boy was a child trying to hold his first crayon, Peter curled the younger man's fingers around it, after double checking the safety.

He didn't know why such a seemingly insignificant shape would hold such weight, such density that it seemed to pull Neal's world into it like a black hole, sucking all the light from the air.

Why was it so heavy?

Glancing down, he stared at the object in a cold way.

There was no fine design to the shape of it; it lacked the graceful contours that could be found in everything on the earth.

Except guns, it seemed.

The bizarre form, coupled with the stone cold metallic color, glinted sinisterly in the light and gave to Neal a level of unease he hadn't felt in a very long time.

The last time he had held a gun was on one of the undercover ops with Peter when they getting to the bottom of a large scam. But at that time, he had taken the shotgun into his hands through his own free will. It was decision. Now it was out of his control. He didn't know why that made it so much worse, but it did. He hated the weakness he felt within himself. But most of all, he hated the gun.

Memories of a smiling boy staring adoringly at his father flashed painfully in front of his eyes.

"_I want to be just like you,"_

"_You will be tiger, one day, only if you eat your veggies that is!"_

"Neal."

"_Daddy! Turn on the sirens, pretty please!"_

"_Well . . . I'm not supposed to, you know that. Just for you though. My special little man."_

"Neal!"

"_You grip it like this, right dad?"_

"_You have to hold it like this or else the recoil will knock you right off your feet and then what will I tell your mother?"_

"NEAL!"

He just couldn't handle it. Eyes fluttering, he felt his systems shut down, not knowing how to deal with this current development. A few seconds of cold, blissful, nothing. Then he rebooted. Slowly but surely, he reconfigured himself to deal with this momentarily, through the only program it knew how; the 'everything-is-fine' program. He couldn't deal with the emotions it carried with him right now, not with Peter, Dianne, and Hughes hanging around. Later, in the solace of an empty room, basked in aloneness he might be able to sort through this, or at least dwell on it.

Because Neal Caffery did not get upset.

He wasn't the kind who got flustered or emotional.

He rarely was not in control of himself.

And Neal did not mourn for his childhood.

It suddenly felt like that happy little boy and Neal Caffery were different people.

Pretend it was just a fluke.

Pretend that everything is fine.

Maybe if he kept telling himself that, it would come true.

Gradually, he became aware of himself once more, and with that, aware of Peter who was hovering around his side nervously.

"Neal, are you in there? Neal! That's it, I'm getting some help!" The man snapped.

"Please don't," Neal rasped quietly.

"Welcome back to earth Neal," Peter commented, his demeanor immediately changing to a gentle kind that people rarely saw. "How was your trip?" he asked, alluding to his feelings.

"I'm better now . . . I guess the shock really took over, huh?"

"Yeah, that's putting it mildly," Peter said laying a skeptical eye on him. "How are you really feeling?" The fed asked bluntly.

"I told you, it was just shock, I mean why would I be given a . . . weapon; I mean I'm technically a criminal." Neal avoided the word carefully, trying to pin the attention of the conversation onto something else.

"It's because I assured them you wouldn't use it unless absolutely necessary. Besides that, the gun you have is one of a kind, and only a certain kind of bullet will work with it. It's a rubber stud that probably won't kill anyone, just do enough damage that they can't continue. I'll be controlling how many bullets you have at any one time and- and- Neal, please talk to me." The older man scanned his companion, searching for any change in his demeanor, or a slight twitch that would belay his true thoughts.

Neal was as calm as a tranquil pond.

"Are you really okay?" Peter tried one more time.

"_Obviously not! I'm not okay!"_

That's what he was screaming inwardly, but outwardly, he gave a vulpine smile and nodded.

The two men sat in silence for a few minutes.

"You know, if I really wanted to I could make bullets for this gun,"

"Yeah, I know, even if you only had playdoh, I think you could manage."

"Glad we both are aware of this."

It was an unspoken understanding that Peter would be watching Neal closely for the days to come.

* * *

><p>"Plleeeaaaassseee Alex! Don't make me do it!"<p>

"Sir, I'm sorry but you don't have a choice in the matter . . . now come down from the ceiling panels!"

The awkward image of a fully grown, intimidating man trying to usher a teen from the panels of the ceiling is what greeted passerbys as they walked past the room severely perplexed and amused. Several interns passed by multiple times to see the unusual spectacle and a few of the agents simply stood and watched in the middle of the hall, taking bets on whether or not the boy would come and when.

Alex had had enough. The rapidly growing blood vessel in his forehead nearly popped as he snapped towards the glass,

"Don't you people have anything better to do?" he exclaimed, sending everyone scrambling as they tried to get away. Echoing laughter from most of the senior agents assured him that he had not alienated anyone at the office. Probably. Hopefully no one would file a complaint.

Either way, it was worth it to have their space away from the prying eyes of the office. Complaint or no.

He would worry about that later, he had much bigger things to worry about at this point.

Like a mischievous seventeen-year-old country who was running around in the ceiling.

"Get down Sir, or I'll come up!" He assured the teen.

"Uh-uh! Don't you'll break it! These have a maximum breaking force of three-hundred pounds," He quipped one of the many facts he knew from the building blue-prints that he had looked over one-time or another.

"So why isn't it broken yet with you up there?"

"Hey! I'm not fat! I-It's all muscle!" he whined.

"Come down," Alex beseeched.

"Ummm, maybe later."

There was a tense silence.

"Alfred Come down!" Alex ordered. There was no room in his voice for more banter of jokes. He was done with it.

The teen was thoughtful for a moment. Analyzing the other man, it became apparent that Alex was tired. The bags under his eyes were clear signs, and even his immaculate suit was slightly wrinkled. Probably because of all the extra paperwork Alfred created. He felt a flash of guilt. Alex even used his first name, and Alfred knew how Alex hated breaking protocol . . . So he truly just wanted this visit to be over and done with.

But this was how he was supposed to behave.

Taking pity on the other man, Alfred jumped down with a loud thud. Dusting off his denim jeans, he turned to Alex with whine on his lips.

"Alright! I guess I'll help with this, but I expect there to be Big Macs involved or else I-"

He was cut off by a swift slap delivered by the folder Alex held.

"Did you have any idea what you were doing? The kind of danger you put yourself in with that damned house?"

Alfred's cheek turned a little red, but he didn't even feel an urge to rub it, because he probably deserved it for what he put Alex and everyone at the White House through. Fists gripped tight he stared at the tile ground.

Look what he'd done.

"Look I'm sorry for what happened but things got out of han—"

Before he had any time to figure out what was going on, he was swept up in a hug.

His eyes widened as he was enveloped in sincere feelings of the most concerned nature.

"Do you have any idea how worried I was?"

His eyes softened and he allowed himself to fold into the hug.

It was a decidedly strange feeling for Alfred, being enveloped. As a nation, you are so much, symbolize so much and can become so much that humans, even if they are your citizens, can't always understand it, let alone grasp it enough to fully understand what Alfred really is.

It's width is less than a hair's, but the thin, fragile line between Alfred and America was something that defined who he was.

Alex cared for both halves.

His sworn duty was to America.

Yet here he was, hugging Alfred.

It was nice, Alfred decided.

Frankly, living with Peter and Neal had been practically a vacation for the Alfred side of things. They didn't know who he was, or what he stood for. They had no expectations, nothing they wanted him to solve. America didn't exist in their mind. He was just some teenage kid with weird family history.

And yet . . .

"You don't always have to pretend you know?" Alex said pulling back just enough from the hug to make eye-contact with Alfred, yet still have his arms around the teen.

Alfred smiled a genuine smile.

He did understand.

Because at the same time, not being him, with all his weird quirks, eccentricities and history was just as untrue. Alfred was America. America was Alfred. They balanced each other out marvelously. The serious superpower and the teenage boy that just wanted to play video games and hide-and-seek were the same.

Unless he lived as both he would be off-balanced.

Maybe he could afford to take it a little easier on Peter and Neal. Not go quite so crazy.

… Then again, he still didn't think they had been forgiven yet for trying to pawn him off somewhere else when they first met. (Not to mention they were so much fun to mess with!)

He smiled again.

A happy medium, right?

He allowed himself to be pulled deep into the expensive fabric.

He could deal with that.

* * *

><p>The trio returned home more haggard and weary than that eventful day a few weeks ago with the agoraphobic and the fire.<p>

That really was saying something.

Peter was still scanning Neal in anticipation of a sign or something that things weren't okay. Neal, in return, was trying every trick in the book to get Peter to leave him alone for a few moments, his smile gradually becoming tighter and tighter.

The trouble with that was that Neal's living space could very nearly be described as a loft. It was a great rectangular room that melded fluidly from the television room, to the kitchen to the bedroom without any awkward breaks in between. Usually Neal reveled in the open spaces and airy living situation, now they only elucidated to him how suffocating small his box was.

Were the walls always this close? He wondered about that. Peter's anxious looks, which were given every time he thought Neal wasn't looking (though he really was) were not helping the situation one bit.

Seeking reprieve, he found himself venturing somewhere he would normally never dare.

Alfred's room.

Usually it was the antonym for what Neal was searching for, however, it was the only room on his floor. If he ventured into other areas of the house he had the sneaking suspicion that Peter would be trailing behind him. At least in Alfred's room, he knew Peter wouldn't follow.

He hesitated outside, trying to mentally prepare himself for the horrors within. He distinctly remembered his last visit. The sound of the bubble-gum pop that made him nauseous and the bright colors that he thought might blind him. Alfred was apparently building an exactly (he emphasized how exact it truly was by waving various equations around) proportionate miniaturized copy of the Empire State building on Neal's last visit. Who knew what madness was contained behind this door. Taking a deep breath he plunged into the great abyss of bright colors and disorienting music.

When he entered, he could barely keep his mouth from falling open in surprise.

Alfred was sprawled on the bed, calmly reading a book. In the background there was the lilting sound of old-style piano playing.

"Is that Cole Porter?" He sensed the words falling from his lips without really understanding exactly what he was saying exactly.

Alfred didn't look surprised or startled by Neal's sudden appearance; instead he just smiled and nodded.

"Ella Fitzgerald's singing this version," Alfred informed him.

Neal was anticipating a long rambling sentence telling him some very random and unnecessary facts about the album, or maybe even gushing about how much he loved this album. When Alfred turned back to his book he was bemused.

"Do you mind if I listen too?" Neal asked, manners overruling his curiosity. Alfred nodded, and Neal let himself slide down against the bed frame. The soft vibrato of the words let him forget the confusing events that had recently overtaken his life.

"_Just disappear_

_I care for you much too much_

_And when you're near, close to me dear_

_We touch too much_"

Why was Mozzie keeping so many secrets? What secrets was he keeping anyways?

It was all to do with Alfred.

The confusing boy.

_"The thrill when we meet is so bittersweet_

_That darling, it's getting me down_

_So on your mark get set_

_Get out of town_"

One minute he was rampaging around the office and now he was enjoying the evening with some soft music and a book that certainly didn't have any pictures in it or comic panels from the look of it. He tried to see the spine, but it was covered in Alfred's palm.

"I think this is the quietest I've ever seen you," He commented lightly.

"It's one of those books that you can't help but sit and think about, even if you don't want to," Alfred told him.

"Oh, are you still doing that thing with the Harry Potter book?" Neal asked, remembering the ridiculous idea that books would get jealous and his proclamation to read one "American book for every British Chapter" like the books' nationality was a big deal.

Alfred nodded.

"I'm on chapter seventeen."

That gave Neal pause. They'd only had Alfred in their custody for a week. Reading that many books would be impossible, then again if they are all picture books, then who knew. Alfred's (Neal's really,) bookshelf was filled to the bursting point with books of all shapes, sizes and colors. Some looked like children's books with no more than ten pages each, and other looked like epics, that took months to read all the way through and years to truly understand. The one in Alfred's palm looked a little over one hundred pages.

"What're you reading now?" He asked.

"Cannery Row by John Steinbeck."

"Ah." Neal vaguely remembered the book himself, though knew he had once read it in school as part of the curriculum.

Alfred opened his mouth, and instead of saying something in response, he began to read aloud in a voice that was clear and moving, bringing the words to life as he read. Neal closed his eyes and allowed the majesty of the words to take him away.

"'_In the sink the high white foam cooled and ticked as the bubbles burst. Under the piers it was very high tide and the waves splashed against the rocks they had not reached in a long time."_

This was the final chapter, but it expressed the whole of the story. From Mack and the boys, who were called the graces of the row, to Dora the whorehouse owner and even Lee Chong and his marvelous grocery.

Alfred didn't finish the final paragraph, in lieu; he read the back of the novel.

"'Cannery Row focuses on the acceptance of life as it is: both the exuberance of community and the loneliness of the individual.' You know, that's so true sometimes it kind of hurts." He tacked on the end.

Neal slowly opened his eyes.

"Without other people we kind of collapse in on ourselves. Their absence creates a vacuum, a vacuum that swallows even light," Alfred continued. "There is no way to get rid of black holes."

"Then what do you do?" Neal asked, the weariness sinking into his voice, before a desperate feeling clawed its way up his throat.

"First it was my father, Kate followed in an explosion and now Mozzie! I feel like I'm running out of things to lose! What do I do to keep everything from fading into black?" It was as though his mouth had opened without his permission, his innermost thoughts spilling forth in an uncontrollable torrent, breathy and gasping.

He ran a shaky hand through his disheveled locks.

_Why was he asking Alfred this? _He really didn't know. Why would a seventeen year old kid have any of the answers he was looking for? Why would he think that he would? Alfred's prolonged silence only confirmed his lack of sanity in his head.

"I'm so pathetic." He gave a little self-deprecating laugh.

"Sorry Alfred, I didn't mean to dump this on you it's just-"

"You keep striving forward."

Neal blinked intelligently at the response. He would have laughed it off were it not for the serious and searing look in Alfred's eyes.

"Things fall apart; that's life. You either get used to it, or you get overcome by it. You know what you do when life throws you hurdles?"

Neal shook his head subconsciously.

"You jump over them and if they are too high, then what do you do?"

A shrug of the shoulders.

"You knock 'em over and then jump. You can fix things, you really can," Alfred said so assuredly that Neal wanted to believe it himself. There was just something about Alfred that drew him in, made him want to believe in a better tomorrow, all-the-while laying out his life for him. It was both terrifying and awing. Maybe this is why Mozzie spent so much time with him. There was something powerful with this kid.

It was looking into those deep cerulean eyes that Neal felt it. The building of energy, the springing of dormant flowers and volcanoes, the desire _to live_ burning so bright that he thought he would be consumed by the flames. The life that had deserted him with Kate, maybe even long before that, when he learned the truth about his dad, was flowing back into his veins, and then he saw it.

He saw true colors.

The monochrome had melted away and behind it left a swirling spindle of light and color.

Maybe he could forgive himself for Kate. Just for a little while anyways. It was too difficult behaving self-destructively around this kid.

Neal felt the stirrings of contentment and liberation mixed with the tiredness that only comes with the satisfaction that something is well done. Tomorrow he would try to talk to Mozzie. The day afterward, he would leave flowers for Kate. The day after that, he would go and clean his father's grave.

He had to keep striving. Alfred was right. Now he was like Michael and Charlie, living in a house where time was irrelevant. He had to get out of the moment. There was more to this life. There had to be more.

This just made him even more curious about Alfred though. Who was he?

A wave of lethargy swept over him, as though he was emotionally spent. He had the strangest feeling of being picked up, but even in his sleep-hazed mind recognized that was ridiculous. Neal was a sturdy guy, and Alfred was a decade or so his junior.

It was irrelevant he decided as he embraced the first real dream he'd had in months that didn't include a plane exploding.

And it was in color.

It was a curiosity when he woke up in Alfred's bed the next day still fully dressed in the clothes of the past day.

* * *

><p>Peter watched as Alfred carefully shut the door to his room so as not to make any sounds.<p>

Alfred couldn't help but feel like a proud parent. Look at what he'd managed to do! Neal was feeling better, he'd not view his relationship as Mozzie lost and maybe he'd even gotten him to stop worrying about Kate.

And tomorrow he'd set his plan into action.

Operation: Get Neal and Mozzie to be besties again was a green light!

Peter was jolted when Alfred broke out in manic laughter out of the blue.

* * *

><p><strong>OMAKE!<strong>

"Sir, surely we can reconsider this," Peter interrupted from the side, giving one last vie for his friend.

"No we can't," Hughes snapped,

"And don't call me Shirly!"

* * *

><p>"It's all muscle! And besides that I-"<p>

Creak.

"Oh shit."

Crack.

BOOM!

Alfred fell from the heavens with a flurry of dust and broken wood.

"Owwwww," he whined while scratching his head. It looked like migraines would be at an all-time high this month in America.

Alex gave a long-suffering sigh.

"Are you okay, Sir?"

"Yeah, I think so."

He received a slap over the head for his troubles.

Really, America does weigh a lot.

* * *

><p>Welllllll There she be! I hope you guys liked it! I can already tell you guys that the next chapter is much more lighthearted.<p>

Also, next chapter, there is a surprise at the end. :} A really awesome surprise.

Thanks so much for reading!

The first omake is from a movie called "Airplane," and I highly recommend it!

**RE**view?

Really, they keep me alive . . .


	12. A Day for Operations and Miscalculations

Dude, you guys are so awesome! I have like 202 reviews! That is so amazing! Shoutout to my 200th reviewer ziashapeshifter101 who I am giving a Spamano one-shot to as a gift.

In thanks to all the stellar reviews, this chapter is out early. (Like seriously early,)

I am just waiting to get all the mixed reviews for this one! Alas though, my Beta is under some seriously heavy stuff right now so it is unBeta'd. If you all want to send some love to Kanae Valentine it would be appreciated. If anyone wants to, or knows of a Beta who would want to help her and I out on this story, send 'em my way.

This chapter, though it came out fast, was like drawing water from a rock. I threw out a two thousand word opener because it totally messed with the flow. So this chapter is either going to be well-recieved or totally hated.

Yay!

**BUT THE SPECIAL SURPRISE IS AWAITING YOU AT THE END!**

Anyways, listened to Gotye and Kings of Leon. (again)

I am still majorly obsessed with Supernatural and I'm a little more than half-way through with season four and it is awesome.

I don't own_ McDonalds_, The Lion King, White Collar, Hetalia, Wavin' Flag, Mambo Italiano or a ball-pit.

* * *

><p>Chapter Twelve<p>

A day for Operations and Slight Miscalculations.

* * *

><p>"<em>America makes prodigious mistakes, America has colossal faults, but one thing cannot be denied: America is always on the move. She may be going to Hell, of course, but at least she isn't standing still."<em>

_~E. e. cummings_

* * *

><p>Like the rising sun, it burned of beginnings. And he could smell it.<p>

It hung dankly in the air like an old musty stench or even those times when people wear too much perfume. Instead of being overwhelmed by it, he embraced it.

The feeling was so palpable, he felt certain that if he opened and closed his mouth, he could take a huge bite of it right out of the air.

He chewed on his lip as he liberated the necessary item from the ceramic confines ignoring the searching gazes that accosted him.

Rustling inside his pockets, he dug for a few moments before his hands closed around his prize.

Lifting it up, his fingers ghosted across the smooth material as he deftly wiped the sweat that had formed from his brow.

The light reflected across his glasses and he cycled for the perfect selection.

Fingers hovering, a smile spread over his face.

This would do it.

Lifting the items he began.

"Ta-ta-ta-ta-ta-ta-ta-ta-ta-ta-ta-ta-tap-tap-tap-tap-tap-tap-tap-tap-tap-tap-tap-tap-Smack"

"Tap-ta-tap-tap-ta"

"Tap-ta-tap-tap-ta"

"Tap-ap-tap-tap"

He let the "oo-ing" take him away as he furiously beat along.

"Ta-ta-ta-ta-ta-ta-ta-ta-ta-ta-ta-ta-tap-tap-tap-tap-tap-tap-tap-tap-tap-tap-tap-tap-Smack"

"Tap-ta-tap-tap-ta"

"Tap-ta-tap-tap-ta"

"Tap-ap-tap-tap"

Smiling, he turned up the volume and continued to ignore the requests that started up and that were rapidly gaining momentum.

Going for broke he dropped his impromptu rhythm-keeper and joined in on his one-man show, voicing, louder than was probably necessary, the call.

"_When I get older, I will be stronger.  
>They'll call me freedom. Just like a wavin' flag.<br>And then it goes back,  
>and then it goes back,<br>and then it goes back,  
>and then it goes:<em>

He couldn't resist getting on his feet and swinging around the room in perfect timing with the beat.

_When I get older, I will be stronger.  
>They'll call me freedom. Just like a wavin' flag.<br>And then it goes back,  
>and then it goes back,<br>and then it goes back,  
>and then it goes-<em>"

"ALFRED! WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU DOING?" Peter ripped the headphones from Alfred ears.

Spinning around with a slightly confused look, Alfred took stock of the situation.

Neal was in the corner, smothering an amused look as people outside milled around all looking on in mirth and confusion. Standing in the middle of the room was Peter, whose face was red like a tomato.

"Hm? What do you mean?" Alfred asked, as though he had not just been drumming a one-man-solo before dancing around the room singing. All in all, he kept up the act of ignorance pretty well.

"PEOPLE ARE WORKING HERE! What are you- I mean- why would-" Unable to even form a coherent sentence, Peter just fumed and steamed as the other two watched him with mirth.

"But it's so hot in here!" Alfred whined.

"So that means you can make my office your official play-pen? I don't think so!" Peter exclaimed.

"Ugh! But it's so freaking hot!" The country complained, fanning himself with an envelope.

"We know Alfred; in fact I think you've reminded at least twice in the past five minutes." Peter grumbled as he tried to get back to his paperwork.

He had tried to persuade Neal three times to take Alfred out and get him a latte, or run around, or to go play in traffic, for all Peter cared. He had been shot down with complaints from Alfred and deadpanned looks from Neal.

There was no way Neal was going to be dealing with Alfred today. Not for all the art in the world. The teen was the epitome of whiney and every few minutes he felt the urge to remind everyone about the weather, in case they happened to forget it was burning.

It was a polar opposite reaction of the way he was that day a few weeks ago and it was eating away at Neal's psyche through the sheer unpredictability of the teen. Who knew how he would be tomorrow, maybe quoting Chaucer and the day after he would be throwing rice-mellow treats at everyone.

Maybe the teen was bi-polar.

"That's it! I'm going to Alaska! I don't care if the Russian people get me," Alfred proclaimed slapping his hand on the table loudly.

"Oh no. Please don't leave," Neal pleaded monotonously, playing with his fedora as Peter sighed.

It was way too hot for this kind of thing.

"Alfred, sit down," Peter commanded tiredly.

"No. I'm leaving and you can't stop me!"

"Right. Look Alfred we're all hot! There's nothing anyone can do about that. So the best we can do is try to make this time as not-terrible as possible, okay?" Peter asked out with his fakest smile

"Whatever," Alfred pouted but sat down, all-be-it resignedly.

"You guys coulda come with me, you know."

"Mm-hmm. Just so you know, if you tried to make a run for it, we'd have to chase you down."

"Really?" Alfred was looking excited but it quelled when the two shot him glares.

"Don't even think about it."

"But tag is so much fun!" He protested.

"Seriously Alfred."

"You guys are so boring. Don't you guys like run down bad guys and diffuse bombs and stuff?" The teen asked as he played with his aviator sunglasses.

Neal rolled his eyes. Alfred had seen way to many movies.

"Normally we're the first team they go to for stuff like that, but since you're here, we've been moved down the list so we're more like reserve team. Now the most we're going to get is mortgage fraud" Peter explained.

"But that sucks!"

Neal was inclined to agree with Alfred. An entire year, at the least of nothing but mortgage fraud. He'd probably end up eating his own head.

"Well after what happened last time, I can't find it in me to blame them," Peter said in a diminished tone.

There was a silence as they remembered the fire.

"It's actually pretty good if you have paperwork to do, or redo from a certain someone's drool," Peter, said, more to fill the silence than anything else. Everyone was glad to take up the topic.

Alfred scratched his head sheepishly at the reminder of the work he had ruined.

"I said I was sorry dude!"It was Peter's turn to roll his eyes.

"Speaking of, don't you have paperwork to do too?"

"I finished that a while ago. It's already on its way to the Whitehouse."

"You finished it already? Huh, I didn't even have a chance to see it," Neal commented passingly. Alex had dropped off the paperwork discreetly in the middle of the night it seemed, and Alfred was very discreet with it. Neal saw neither hide nor hair of it.

"Well yeah, I mean I haven't really been all that busy these past few days. Kiku's been super busy, so we can't play call of duty," He punctuated the statement with a pout.

"Wow. You sure you don't want to help me with my paperwork? Not even to relieve the boredom?" Peter beseeched and Alfred made a waving motion.

"No. It's too freakin' hot."

"Of course. Thank you for reminding me," Peter thanked him sarcastically.

"No problem." Alfred dismissed the entire conversation.

There was blessed silence for a full four minutes and a half before Alfred's phone went off and Peter snapped.

"Out," He ordered the teen before standing up agitatedly and ushering him out of the hallway, dragging Neal out with him, supposedly to keep an eye on the teen.

He gave Peter a-"What the hell?" –look before he brushed his nice suit of and condemned himself to sit with Alfred outside of the office.

The entire time this was happedning, the song was playing obnoxiously loud, gathering even more weird looks from the other workers.

"_Hey mambo, mambo Italiano hey hey mambo mambo Italiano  
>Go go go you mixed up Siciliano<br>All you Calabrese do the mambo like-a crazy with the_

_Hey mabo don't wanna tarantella  
>Hey mambo no more mozzarella<br>Hey mambo mambo Italiano try an enchilada with a fish baccala_

_Hey goomba I love how you dance the rumba  
>But take some advice paisano learn-a how to mambo<br>If you're gonna be a square you ain't-a gonna go anywhere  
>Hey mambo mambo Italiano hey hey mambo mambo Italiano<br>Go go Joe shake like a tiavanna  
>E lo che se dice you get happy in the pizza when you<br>Mambo Italia-_"

"'Sup Lovino?"

Neal peered over at his companion curiously as a stream of heavily accented _angry _Italian swearing poured from the phone. It wasn't until it calmed down, could Neal understand any of it.

"Hey you! What's the big idea!"

"I dunno, do you know what the big idea is? Neal, do you know?" Alfred looked at Neal expectantly, who unsurely shook his head after a few minutes of uncomfortable staring.

"Neal doesn't know either," He informed Lovino.

"Don't play games with me! I know you said something to my brother! He's been avoiding me for the last couple of days."

It seemed that Feliciano had been keeping his word when he said that he wouldn't let Lovino know he was with Caffery. Of course, the northern part had a hard time keeping his own thoughts a secret from his brother so it was no wonder that he had taken to avoiding him.

Alfred made a note on his mental to-do list to let the Italian man win the next time they played Call of Duty.

"So? What's that got to do with me?" Alfred asked innocently.

"It started after you both played video games!"

"Kiku was playing too ya know?" Alfred said, apologizing in his head for throwing his homie in front of the bus.

"Maybe, but I already talked to him and I know he didn't do it! Besides that, you are much more annoying than he is! What did you say to my brother!"

"Geesh! I didn't say anything! Man, I am so not annoying . . ."

"I know you're lying you-" The rest was a trail too dirty and rapid for Neal to follow.

"Oh dear! I do appear to be going under a tunnel. I think you're-ksssshhhh-reaking up-kssshhhhh-call you-kshhh-later."

Neal watched as the teen emulated the sounds with an amused look.

"You basta-"

A sharp beep cut off the tone and Alfred cheerily shoved the phone in his pocket.

"He's such a nice guy!" Alfred proclaimed.

"Yeah? He didn't seem too happy just then," Neal pointed out with a raised eye-brow.

"Oh that was just cuz I kicked his brother's ass at Call of Duty. I think he has a complex or something," Alfred trailed off, "Anyways, I'm hungry; feed me," Alfred ordered, with even less decorum than usual.

"What was that?" Neal asked wondering how the teen could be as dense as a rock and not even know it. Not to mention the manners.

"You never saw that play?" Alfred scanned his mind and was upset by what he saw.

"What play?"

Letting out a sigh, the younger of the two shook his head sadly at the older man.

"Right . . . Well, maybe I could convince Peter to let us go and get something to eat," He suggested, and Alfred nodded eagerly along.

They reentered the office and stood awkwardly in the doorway, before Alfred elbowed Neal. The con rolled his eyes at the childishness.

"Hey Peter, why don't I take Alfred to get some lunch?" Neal suggested.

He might as well have just told Peter that he would tell him how he pulled off every con he ever did because an intense look came over the other man's face and he nodded frantically.

"Yes! Yes! Please! Just get _that_ outta here!" He exclaimed, flicking his hand towards the teen.

"Field trip!" Alfred exclaimed, not even a little miffed at being called a "that." He made a mad dash out of the room and Neal moved to follow.

"You got your gun?" Peter asked, and to Neal's credit he didn't even flinch at the mention of it. He gave a tight nod as he tried to force himself to relax. This little inconvenience wasn't going to trip up his day, he was on the verge to getting answers; he just knew it. All he needed was a little alone time with Alfred to work his magic. If the kid wasn't going to open up to Neal willingly, then he would just have to coheres the secrets out of the unknowing teen.

He must have succeeded in looking calm, because Peter's face eased up a little and after getting a stern reminder of the radius of his ankle monitor, and a-

"For God's sake! Keep an eye on that boy!"

-He was well on his way.

Giving Peter one last mock salute he too was flying from the room. He quickly overtook Alfred who was standing in the middle of the entrance room with a perturbed look on his face.

Alfred was feeling the strangest chill in the air and gave a small shiver.

'_Where have I felt this before?_'

"What is it?" Neal asked.

Alfred just shook his head.

"It's nothing," Alfred said, not wanting to get into it.

Focusing his attention back on the task at hand, he mentally checked the box on his mental to-do list where it said;

"_Get kicked out of Peter's office._"

Step one of Operation: Get Neal and Mozzie to be besties again was a flaming success. He knew just the right buttons to push to get Peter to want him out of the office. It was also painfully plain to see that Neal was in search of answers and would snag any chance he could to wiggle them out of Alfred.

Too bad.

Today, Alfred already had big plans for him.

(Besides that, Alex had verbally beaten him to pieces just for telling them where he actually worked; it wasn't worth thinking about the kind of trouble he'd get into for telling them his true identity!)

Stepping into the bustling town people weaved to and fro past him as they went on their way, distracted by their own lives.

"It's an amazing city isn't it?" Neal asked with a grin.

"Without a doubt." Alfred shot back a grin even wider, unable to keep the pride out of his voice after looking at his flourishing city.

"So I thought we could head down to that diner on Reade Street, it isn't too far of a walk and-"

"I already have a place in mind, follow me! It's got like the best food in the world!" Alfred gushed, already starting to walk one way, forcing Neal to follow him.

So maybe it was a little rude, but he didn't have time to diplomatically do this, they were running on a schedule after all.

"So did Alex go back to the capital already?" Neal asked, deciding to smooth into the serious questions after a few preliminary ones.

"Yeah, he came by for a few hours this morning and left right after dropping some more paperwork at the house." Alfred gave a little shudder.

"Eugh," Neal said sympathetically. Just watching Peter go through his paperwork was boring enough for Neal.

Now it was time to move up the intensity a little bit.

Reading the thoughts flowing through the con-man's mind, Alfred felt like rolling his eyes. No way he would slip up, like honestly. He was like a stone wall of impenetrability.

"So Alfred, have you lived in the capital a long time?"

"Yeah, I guess."

"You guess?"

"Mmm," Was Alfred's intelligent response.

"That's a little vague," Neal remarked.

"Is it?" Alfred could have been a lawyer.

"Um, yes?"

"Oh."

Maybe he should just stick to being a country.

"Are you and your brother very close?" Neal asked, drawing up the topic randomly and putting the right amount of casual air into it to make it seem innocent. It seemed that he needed to back off on the intensity.

"Yeah, I'd say we're pretty close; we always keep in touch," Alfred responded with a smile, though he seemed to be in on a joke that Neal didn't get.

"What's he like?" Neal noticed the teen seemed comfortable around the topic and decided to pursue it.

"Oh he's-" Alfred stopped suddenly, making Neal walk into him awkwardly.

The teen looked like he was about to cry.

"What is it?"

"It's just the look of those golden arches . . . It's too beautiful!" He delivered the beautiful speech to a quickly dead-panning Neal.

"What?" He asked flatly.

Sure enough, on the corner there sat the very recognizable logo of the world's largest chain of hamburger fast food restaurants.

"McDonalds? This is the place that has the best food in the world?" He asked Alfred incredulously. Inwardly he was hoping that Alfred would pull back and say "psych!" but instead, Alfred just nodded, a happy sigh escaping his lips.

"Let's go in!" He exclaimed, and Neal had no choice but to follow.

Step two, delivering Neal to the location, got a big check.

The building was one of the larger versions Neal had seen, (not that he frequented these kinds of places often.) The play-zone took up half of it. Colorful slides twisted in every direction, all leading back to the main focal point, a large ball-pit that could be mistaken as a lake or a small sea of multi-colored dip'n-dots. Children's laughter echoed against the walls mixed with headache inducing squeals. Already, Neal wasn't envisioning a very pleasant time, his hopes for a nice cozy meal littered with subtle questions and gradual understanding, were quickly flying out the window.

Alfred took his order quickly and excitedly, telling the –overwhelmed looking cashier that he wanted seven hamburgers and six orders of fries. Due to the choice of dining, Neal decided to forgo food for the moment.

Immediately bypassing the front part of the joint, Alfred walked cheerily to one of the tables by the play-zone. All of them were taken by haggard looking parents, but Alfred kept walking towards one anyways. Specifically a table where an old lady with was already sitting.

Ducking into the area embarrassedly, he hissed to Alfred.

"Look someone's already sitting there, let's go back to the front," He urged, trying to make this trip as minimally embarrassing as possible.

"Hey Mozzie!" Alfred called, sitting down excitedly.

"Shhhh! What have I told you about- oh. Hello Neal," the old lady said curtly.

Seeing past the make-up, the pearl earrings, the rather frumpy looking dress and the grey curls, it quickly became apparent to Neal that said old lady was actually Mozzie in disguise. Oddly enough, it was not the strangest disguise he'd ever seen the other man use.

"Hello Mozzie, what are you doing here?" He asked stiffly.

"I invited him! Playing in the play-zone is so much funner when there are more people, don't you think?" Alfred asked happily.

Neal usually wasn't stern, but these were _extremely_ special circumstances.

"First off, 'Funner' is not a word. Secondly, **no**. Thridly, we are adults, we don't play in the play-zone! Fourthly**, no**."

Mozzie was nodding along as Neal made his point.

"It's the man's balls, you can't trust them," Mozzie said conspiritorily. A woman nearby let out a shocked sound as she shepherded her children away from their table.

Ignorant of this development Alfred was frowned, though it broke quickly as they called his number over the announcing system.

"I'll be right back!" He exclaimed as he ran off to get his food, leaving a very awkward feeling in his wake.

Neal swallowed hard as he turned to face his best friend. He had been planning to call the man. He had prepped his speech so many times that he gave himself a headache, but sitting at the too-small plastic tables at a McDonald's staring at his cross-dressing friend, he was thrown way out of his comfort zone and everything he prepared ditched him in the dust.

After several moments of tense and thoroughly uncomfortable silence, it was Mozzie who broke it.

"So how have you been?" Mozzie asked with forced casualness.

_I have to carry a gun now, and Peter still really sucks at giving advice._

"I've been well. And you?"

_I wish you were there to help me with Kingsly and her crazy cats._

"The same."

_No one else understands my love-hate relationship with Picasso._

"That's good to hear," Neal responded.

_Wine doesn't taste the same._

"Yeah,"

_I miss all you're lame movie quotes._

Silence.

_I miss you._

More silence.

_I miss you too._

If everyone spoke their thoughts, the two would have made up by now. Instead, Alfred had to look sadly at the fake production before him, wondering why people couldn't be more honest with each other.

Well this is why they needed his help.

It was time for step number three.

Pasting a happy smile on his face, he sat at the plastic table, setting his tray down noisily. Inwardly sighing that he had to leave his food alone, he poked Neal.

"Hey, can we talk for a minute?" He asked rising to his feet, after stealing a few fries from the tray and gesturing away from the table.

"Yeah, let's talk," Neal could barely keep the irritation from his voice, as he tried to force himself to calm down.

"Guard my food," The country ordered Mozzie seriously as he walked over to the ball-pit.

Standing on the steps, he closed his eyes. He could feel the children, the future, as they swung around the plastic enclosure. So full of hope, so full of life, so full or opportunities; the world truly was their oyster.

"Why did you drag me over here? Did you know he was going to be here too? I mean, come on what give-"

Alfred held a shushing hand to the con's mouth, his eyes still closed.

"You know why it's easy to be friends when you're young?" The blonde teen asked.

"Because they have simpler minds and fewer standards of judgment. Now listen to me, I know-"

"BZZT! Wrong answer!" Alfred exclaimed loudly, catching the eyes of several parents, before they slowly turned back to their meals. Alfred's eyes flicked open, sparkling blue in the strange mixture of artificial and sun produced light.

Neal felt the irritation finally setting in, and decided that this must be how Peter felt all the time.

"Look cut the crap Alfred-"

"It's because they always assume the person they are talking to is being honest."

Neal was quiet for a second.

"Well it's easy when you're a kid, isn't it?" Neal said quietly, looking back at Mozzie, who, despite being dressed as a convincing little old lady, was hissing at one of the kids who had come up to talk to him. Most likely defending the food, as per Alfred's orders.

"That's because you don't think about it as much; don't think about anything as much."

"So is that why you brought me here? So I would remember how to be honest with my friends?" Neal asked, some sarcasm dripping into his tone. It wasn't Neal who wasn't being honest with his friends; it was Mozzie who kept these secrets from him. Secrets about Alfred. Neal suddenly had a prickling sensation that Alfred somehow knew exactly what was going on.

"Even if they were being lied to, these kids don't know the difference. They don't let it ruin their friendship,"

"Well they probably don't even know that they are being lied to! It changes things when you can see the secrets!" Neal pointed out.

"Maybe they are better for it." Alfred spoke in a weighted tone, as he looked up at Neal with a hopeful expression, giving one last vie for Neal to give up on trying to squeeze information out of him. Information that wasn't his to give away.

"I don't think I agree." Neal said shaking his head, unable to accept that. "Once you know they are there, it's inevitable that you'll discover them." He would find out this eventually. He would.

Alfred sighed. Well Neal wouldn't be giving up on this anytime soon, (in fact, if anything, he made the desire to find out worse.) Well this wasn't a complete loss for him, not yet anyways. He still had a chance to get Neal and Mozzie to be besties yet.

It was time for step four now that negotiations had failed

"There's another reason I brought you here," He stated. Neal looked up at him curiously, backing down temporarily from the previous topic.

"Oh?"

"Yeah, it's a good one," He said and he moved closer to Neal as though he was about to reveal a secret.

"The reason why is because . . ."

Alfred hung on the edge.

"Tag! YOU'RE It!" He screamed, pushing the other man hard into the ball pit.

He was spinning in an orbit that was entirely his own for a few blessed seconds before he touched down back on earth, hard in the plastic sea.

Neal landed rigidly, his brain unable to catch up with what was happening.

This was not happening!

There was no way this was happening!

There was no way in HELL this was happening!

. . . This was happening.

His brain had officially entered shock mode and when it eventually wore off, he was sure the embarrassment would cripple him.

"What is wrong with you Alf- Alfred? What are you doing?"

The shadow grew bigger and Neal did his best to brace himself as Alfred dove into the ball-pit landing head-first right on top of Neal.

He let out a tight groan. He was pushed against the plastic bubbles harshly. Children screamed around him, some in surprise at his impromptu drop, and other in glee to see an adult fall into their world.

Weary parents stirred to their feet, panic seizing them as they shouted for their kids to get away from the strangers in the pit.

"Get off of me!" He screamed though his mouth was smothered by Alfred's arm so it sounded more like-

"Geeeffofme!"

-and it was too muffled to make out.

"Mozzie! Help! I think Neal's drowning!"

'_Oh you have got to be kidding me!_'

Neal squirmed and wiggled his hardest to try and get out of what was most likely the absolute most embarrassing moment of his life. More embarrassing than the time he had been caught in the prime minister of Russia's shower with a Faberge egg in his mouth and (several) crowns in his hands.

Did he mention the prime minister was all ready to jump into the shower?

CoughNAKEDcough

That was saying something.

"Help Mozzie help!" Alfred shouted.

Inwardly he begged for Mozzie not to make this any worse than it already was.

All his pleading was in vain.

"I told you this was a government deathtrap!" He could hear the pounding footsteps as they approached the ball-pit. A smooshing sound greeted his ears and he knew that Mozzie was in the pit with them.

Finally getting his head out from underneath Alfred's back, he saw Mozzie doing the breast-stroke and slowly making his way over to them. He wished he had just stayed under there, at least then he'd have better luck convincing himself that none of this was happening.

"Mommy, what are those people doing?"

"Shhh honey, don't look at them."

"But mommy-"

"Remember what I told you about if strange men start playing at the park with you?"

"Scream for help?"

"Exactly, pumpkin."

The girl, apparently not understanding when she should or should not be using this technique, immediately let loose an ear-piercing scream.

Neal watched as a curly, ginger haired kid crept close to an unsuspecting Mozzie who was concentrating on swimming closer to Neal, and letting loose a torrent of water from a plastic spray gun.

"Oh that is it kid! I can find out where you live! I'll even find out your worst fear and then I'll put it in your cereal box! Don't doubt me!" Mozzie threatened as he spluttered from the water.

Alfred just started laughing like it was the funniest thing in the world which made the entire situation ten-times more annoying.

"Excuse me, I'm going to have to ask you to leave the ball-pit it's for kids only," A teen, whose voice cracked in the middle, urged passively, looking far out of his depth in this situation.

Neal shut his eyes and prayed for this to be over.

"-hahahahahahaha-"

"-those strange men do-"

"-and then no one will find your body or your small intestine! Then I'll-"

"Mommy! They are still there! I'll scream agai-"

"-cuse me sirs please-"

Alfred frowned as he walked along the street. He couldn't yet figure what had exactly gone wrong with his totally ingenious plan. The basic idea was to get Mozzie to save Neal from drowning. Then Mozzie would feel like a hero and Neal would be really grateful and junk and then things would pick up where they left off. Instead, they had been escorted off the premises, and Mozzie snuck away without a parting word. Neal was looking thoroughly miserable to say the least.

The older looking man seemed just about ready to pass out. His normal clean-cut manner was all out of wack, and he hadn't even bothered straightening his tie, an impulse that Alfred knew was always on the other man's fingers.

"Neal?"

"Let's hurry back to the office Alfred," Neal told him curtly, not even looking his way.

It seemed that whatever ground Alfred had gained the previous night, had been lost in a snap. Damn. He'd have to start from the chopping block again.

"Look I'm sorry things turned out this way, I really didn't mean for that," Alfred started.

" . . . You got us kicked out of McDonalds. Hell, I didn't even think that was possible!" Neal exclaimed, swearing uncharacteristically.

Alfred winced.

"I'm sorry," He apologized again.

Where was the person who had comforted him, and drawn him from his nightmares?

Neal gave a long-suffering sigh; trying to understand where the teen was coming from, nowhere in his mind could he fathom how Alfred had decided to do something like this.

"What were you thinking?" He voiced aloud.

It might have been a rhetorical question, meant to insinuate that Alfred hadn't really been thinking at all, but he had been, he had been thinking and that really did make it worse.

"I just wanted for you and Mozzie to make up," He replied honestly.

"How was drowning me in a ball-pit supposed to help?" Neal asked, still in shock that that had actually happened.

"I wasn't drowning you," Alfred said, rolling his eyes.

"That's why you smothered me in a ball-pit and screamed, 'Help! Neal's drowning!' over and over again?" Neal asked skeptically.

"That was just so Mozzie could save you and then you would see that you still need Mozzie and he would see that he's still important to you."

Whatever Neal had been expecting, it really wasn't that. Alfred's eyes sparkled with honesty and earnestness.

God he wished it was easier to hate the kid.

Hearing what Alfred had intended them to learn was almost hard. It was too truthful, and honestly something Neal hadn't been able to admit out loud just yet, but Alfred saw through every layer to what really was going on. He knew somehow, and with that knowledge, he had tried the best he could, with what was in his power to fix it.

He was just seriously misguided in his methods.

(Really seriously misguided.)

But Alfred shouldn't have to intervene for them to understand what was going on. They knew. It wasn't that complicated after all.

Then why was it so hard to deal with? Why were they avoiding it? Avoiding each-other?

What was wrong with them?

Deciding he needed to spend some serious time thinking about this later, he wanted to let Alfred off the hook and let him know he wasn't all that upset with him. (Even if he was scarred for life.)

"I understand where you were coming from, though next time, you should try screening your plans with me before-hand," Neal admonished lightly.

"Mmmkay." Pshhh! No! Course he wouldn't let Neal know his plans! That totally defeated the purpose!

"I don't know why you felt like you needed to fix this though," Neal wondered aloud.

"Well, it's sorta like-" He stopped mid-sentence.

"It's like- It's like-" Alfred struggled for a moment trying to find the right words to voice what he was feeling, before his face lit up.

"It's like watching a short kid trying to grab something from the top shelf!" He said snapping his fingers.

"What?"

"The answer is so easy for me to see, the solution is so simple, and I feel like I have the power to just fix it, you know? Just reach my hand and grab it for 'em. Or even drag over a stool. It's like watching that," He explained, a sort of pensiveness overcoming his features.

"I mean, I'm tall enough to see what's going on. I'm tall enough to help," Alfred continued.

"I know I can fix it, a solution that's simple for me to see. People yell at me sometimes for getting too involved. But I can't explain it; it's just teetering on the cusp of understanding. I just want to help. Though you know what they say, 'The road to hell is paved with good intentions,'" Alfred remarked with a slightly more cynical tone. Neal suddenly wasn't sure if the teen was still talking about the situation with Mozzie or not, though he was unsettled by this drier version of Alfred. (Something else unexplainable about the teen.) The mystery was just mounting, and Neal felt himself dying to understand what made him tick.

"Plus, I know it's my fault you two aren't getting along . . ." Alfred trailed off looking at the sidewalk in lieu of Neal.

"Look Alfred it's okay, really-"

"No it's not. And I know that it;s not."

They finally reached their building, but it didn't feel right to Neal to let it end on such a sour note.

"Look Alfred, I appreciate what you tried to do for Mozzie and me, really," He tried to infuse his words with true feeling, and was surprised to find that it was really there. Alfred ducked his head and gave a smile.

"Well what can I say, I am pretty damn aweso-" His proclamation was cut off when he tripped face first onto the tile. The bang was so loud, everyone else in the lobby turned curiously to see what had happened.

"Jesus! Alfred are you alright?" Neal asked as Alfred pulled himself up to his knees while he clutched his head furiously. A red bump was already appearing, but Neal was just grateful he hadn't cracked his skull open.

"Owowowowowowow! Ouch! That hurt! What the hell did I trip on anyways?" He glanced back accusingly.

"Oh maple! I am so sorry Alfred!" Suddenly a person seemed to appear that they hadn't noticed before. He was wearing a coat, which was suicidal in this hot weather. His face was similar to Alfred but he had soft looking purple eyes and his hair was longer and wavier.

"Mattie?" Alfred jumped up, pain forgotten.

"Hello Al." Matthew smiled tentatively.

* * *

><p><strong>OMAKE!<strong>

"Yeah, I'd say we're pretty close; we always keep in touch," Alfred said, before bursting out laughing.

"You get it, cause we share a border and are always touching! Hahahahaha!"

Neal watched him with a flat expression as a quiet Canadian walked over and sighed.

"You're so weird sometimes Al," Matthew said shaking his head.

* * *

><p>"That's because you don't think about it as much; don't think about anything as much."<p>

"Well no wonder you have so many friends," Neal replied with a smile.

"Hurtful . . . " Alfred cried.

* * *

><p>It was time for step four now that negotiations had failed<p>

"There's another reason I brought you here," He stated. Neal looked up at him curiously, backing down temporarily from the previous topic.

"Oh?"

"Yeah, it's a good one," He said and he moved closer to Neal as though he was about to reveal a secret.

"Look, Simba. Everything the light touches is our kingdom,"

" . . .What the hell?"

* * *

><p>Inwardly he begged for Mozzie not to make this any worse than it already was.<p>

To no avail.

"What lassie? Neal fell into _the man's_ balls? What? You want me to rescue him?"

Parents made offended sounds as they tried to cover their children's ears.

"Geez, only for you Neal!"

"Kill me now . . ."

* * *

><p>Yep! Cananada esta aqui!<p>

I hope you all took kindly to my interpretation of America's intent need to solve problems. (Like OCD?)

More Canada is coming up!

REview if you want to see him!

(Thanks for reading!)


	13. Yolo: Carpe Diem: Meh, No Pressure Man

Hey guys. I bet you all think I don't love ya anymore.

This is lie.

I can't even believe how many reviews and views I've gotten. **You all really amaze me!** As such, I am sorry that I haven't responded to all of them yet, I will when I get a spare moment.I'm sorry this chapter is out so late. I went to warped tour and I got a job. Caught a guitar pick at the pierce the veil concert.

Work sucks. Nuff said.

That being said, I have to tell you, that until this fic is finished, I will be working on it. That spamano one-shot is coming! I'm sorry if my 200th reviewer gift is majorly late!

I finished _Supernatural, _flirted with _Psyche_ and am currently enraptured with _The Mentalist._

Bought my copy of "Rockets!" Yay! Also crazy about the end of the Sophmore Year, and Foilie a plusieres being updated! a good week for Hetalia Fanfiction . . .Running up that hill, the placebo version rocks my socks.

Now if you all are ready for some serious brotherly bonding, then lets go.

A reminder, that I view the relationships between countries as something, like, really deep. There is no romance, unless you want there to be, I guess.

This chapter is kind of serious. Sorry.

For those of you who do not know, Yolo means, you only live once. A particular phrase I personally hate.

* * *

><p>Chapter 13<p>

Yolo: Momento Mori: Carpe Diem. Meh, no pressure dude.

* * *

><p><em>"So this is America. They must be out of their minds." ~Ringo Starr<em>

Perhaps it was a flaw in the design, because for whatever reason, the architects had made the entrance way for the federal building of white collar crimes, highly arched and mostly out of marble. In other words it echoed horribly. Alfred was the not the sort of kid you wanted in such echo-y areas, because usually, everyone could already hear him _without_ the added magnification.

So when he stood there shouting gleefully as he half squeezed his brother to death, it really was no wonder that Neal felt the urge to dip his head, to avoid being seen with someone like Alfred.

"Shit! Mattie! When did you get here?" Alfred shouted excitably, immediately drawing more attention to their party. Quite a few stares were already focused on him due to his cataclysmic face plant, not moments ago.

"Alfred, you walked by me earlier," The paler twin said with a faint hint of irritation.

"Oh yeah! I knew that shiver was familiar! Why didn't you say something?"

"I did . . ."

"Hahaha! That is so like you, to not say anything as I just walk by. So when did you get in?" Alfred laughed cheerfully ignoring his brother.

"My flight got in early this morning." Already knowing what the next words out of his brother's mouth would be, he answered the unspoken question.

"I've been here, trying to see you all day! The secretary told me that she would call Peter's office," Matthew protested quietly.

"I think she may have forgotten about me . . ." The Canadian shook his head. Alfred just nodded in understanding as though this happened often.

Neal was beginning to understand how this was possible as the younger man seemed to suddenly become more translucent even as he spoke. He rubbed his eyes, but the image of the boy refused to settle.

The movement caught Alfred's eye and he suddenly remembered the other man.

"Ah! Mattie, meet . . .ummm," He trailed off as he finally realized the situation he was in.

Neal was a collector of Tom Thompson paintings. This really was lovely but for the fact that the national museums, specifically in Canada, were the unknowing benefactors of this little hobby of his. Not to mention Tom Thompson was a 100% born and raised Canadian and the paintings were important benchmarks in the art development up north.

For Matthew, this was beyond personal.

Shit. Why did this always happen to Alfred? He couldn't help the fact he was forced to live with an international art thief. Or that said thief had an unusual habit of stealing Canadian artifacts.

It was like the fates were aligning in the worst possible ways imaginable.

That hurt, fates.

Why all the hate?

His inner questioning was derailed when the information of wanted criminals in Canada suddenly filtered through his brother's mind and his twin let out a short gasp.

"Alfred! That's-"

"Yeah, I know, don't worry about it,"

"But he!-"

"Yep it's been taken care of!"

"But my paintings-"

"It's cool Mattie,"

"But it's not-"

"Dude, it's all good!" Alfred assured him, and instead of the usual effect, which was his brother sighing heavily and perhaps a dramatic headshake, instead his brother just crossed his arms and gave him a surprisingly angry look, even if it was kind of watery.

"You can't just say that Alfred and expect it to all be fine," He said disapprovingly.

"Yes I can, watch me."

"No you can't."

"Oh really?"

"Yes, really! Because I won't let you!"

"Seriously?" Alfred had to cover his smile with his hand.

"Alfred! He's not getting away with this!"

"There isn't anything either of us can do about it."

"There is so! He could give me back my-" Matthew was cut short.

"Wh-what are you doing!" He spluttered, a red shade of embarrassment popped up on his face. Alfred had stepped up behind him and grabbed him in a very intense looking hug and covered his mouth. The smaller twin struggled in the tight grasp of his brother, flailing around semi-pathetically against the enormous strength his brother possessed.

"Now Mattie, I don't want to have to do some of Feliciano's hug therapy, but I will if I have to" Alfred grunted out.

"Mmmmmmphf!"

"I know, I know, shhh, shhh," Alfred said, brushing his brother's hair in a calming gesture.

That wasn't fair of Alfred. He knew the effect hugging had between the two of them. The joining of the border, the symbiotic smashing of the Niagara falls into one beautiful landmark. The steady beat of water on the rocks sounded all the way to New York and it was crystal clear to Matthew and Alfred. He could feel the golden grass of the prairies forming one wave of sun-glowed wheat. North America, one mass in its entirety, the border temporarily relieved by the two of them and their physical closeness.

Many people forgot that they weren't just twins.

They were _conjoined_ twins.

Attached to the hip one might say.

They each calmed, and Matthew's flailing began to lose steam. Both of their eyes were unfocused seeing things miles away, eyelids drooped, becoming half-lidded. It seemed impossible, but they appeared to sink deeper into each other, drawing the other further into the connection between them.

Neal watched the hug slowly slip into a more familiar and intimate kind that only those who are truly close and comfortable with each other can share. He felt the vague notion he was intruding somehow. Shifting his gaze elsewhere, he tried to avert the sudden feeling of loneliness watching them had given him, because he knew he didn't have someone like that. Despite his efforts, his mouth tasted faintly of bitter wine and an empty bottle sprung up in his mind.

When the space was practically non-existent between them, the air suddenly seemed older, reminiscent of a time when there were no borders and they walked the earth, barefoot and unafraid. Exactly the same in nearly every way, only defined by differences in their people, their tribes. Barely different, a closeness they remembered and it was only during these moments that they could accurately draw up the feeling of that universal oneness that was so effortless back then.

The moment came shattering to a halt when one of Matthews elbows found purchase in Alfred's face, only moving due to delayed stopping time and his distracted thoughts.

The blue-eyed twin fell back in a slow motion way that would have been funny, had his face not hurt so much.

"Ow Mattie . . . ." He complained in a sluggish way as he grabbed his face and crouched down. His poor abused face!

"Oh my! Alfred I'm so sorry!" Matthew exclaimed bending over to his brother, to examine the damage with a panicked expression.

"Sir," A voice spoke quietly.

Neal, who was watching the scene with a growing sense of amusement, jumped when he heard the sound come from right beside him. He didn't even notice the suit-clad man slip next to him. If the dark sunglasses he was wearing weren't enough of a giveaway, the listening piece stuck in his ear was clue enough. Body guard no doubt. But the question was why was he here? Alfred hadn't told them someone was coming by. But the way he was staring at Matthew, waiting for a response . . . Was he here for Matthew? Maybe Matthew was being put into protection because of his family connection too, even if he didn't actively hold the secrets.

The guard was blonde, though unlike the twins, his was a pale yellow color instead of the gold. Typical suit and haircut for a body guard. The way he behaved reminded Neal faintly of Alex, though somehow this guard was even more stoic and robotic, and he lacked the slight edge of warmth like Alex had.

Neal never thought he would be using Alex and warmth together in a sentence, let along using him as an example of being more human than something else. He didn't mean it in a bad way, it was just another fact in life; the sky was blue, grass was usually green, and Alex was pretty robotic. The Latino man had nothing on this guy though.

"Liam!" Matthew said, sounding surprised as he pulled himself out of his half-crouch. A bit of embarrassment crept into his tone.

"With that kind of injury I believe it would be in all of our best interests to issue a formal apology," Liam criticized coldly, expression not changing in the slightest as he spoke.

Matthew's face grew white when Liam said this, and his distress became palpable, and Neal was at a loss for what was going on.

"This kind of absentmindedness is simply unacceptable. What if you started something serious?" The other man questioned with a sigh of disapproval.

The other twin seemed to curl in on himself as he took a few steps back and stare down at the ground. Neal thought there were a few tears glistening at the edge of his eyes, though they were frustrated tears that were directed inwardly. He knew the sort.

"Look, Mattie it's fine; don't worry about it," Alfred suddenly jumped in, stepping between his brother and the guard, sounding more mature than Neal had ever heard him.

"Just a little break, once I set it it'll heal right up!" He said with an easy smile that had a sharp tip hidden in it.

Alfred was even playing down his injury instead of hamming it up like Neal had expected him to! The guard, however, was not biting.

"Nonetheless, an official apology will be written up-"

"-that really isn't necessary-" Alfred tried with an earnest smile.

"-for you to sign in the presence of witnesses-"

"-thanks but no thanks-" He deflected again though his expression grew remarkably tighter as the other man ignored him and pushed on.

"-copies will be sent to the white house-"

"-really, we don't need to waste a tree for this-" This time the grin was trembling with anger.

"-it will also need to be verified by both leaders of both parties involved-"

"I said it's fine!" Alfred shouted furiously, his voice slicing through the hall, immediately quieting every other sound in the vicinity. The reverberating silence was deafening and every head was turned to Alfred who stood panting slightly, face flush with anger.

The audacity of a human to try and take control of this situation. He didn't even know what diplomacy was! So what if Canada had in all means, accidently attacked America? They were grown up enough to know what were true strikes and what was playful behavior emulated from humans. Not to mention that they had a peace agreement. The very fact someone would think he would be enough of a violent, war-craving nutjob to take any slight attack and turn it into a full on war against the other party was simply insulting.

Humans simply didn't understand.

Not to mention the way he spoke to his brother. Canada was a country! When a human talked down on him like he was some great accident-prone mess that needed constant supervision, if Canada wasn't going to call him on it, then America sure as hell would! And maybe even then some!

"I forgive Mattie," He continued with a much quieter tone, though the words were still so unbendingly strong that Neal was sure people all the way across the hall could still hear him. There was a defiant look in his eyes as he stared at Liam, challenging him to do something about it.

The moment was tense, balanced at the tip of a knife; just the slightest jostling and it would shatter. _Something _would shatter. Neal wasn't sure what the cause of all the drama was, it was over his head apparently. He would be finding out though, oh yes he would.

Alfred took one, echoing step forward and leaned in close to the other man, eyes flashing. This image of Alfred was so distorted of the one Neal had in his head of the boy. The smiling, laughing, obnoxious, annoying, whiney, perpetually hungry, lunk-head of a boy who listened to his heart more than his brain. Earlier today had been sterling proof of this. Then his mind flashed to the other day, when he had read to him and eased his heavy heart. It was deep for someone so shallow seeming and cartoon-like as Alfred. Which was real? Was it possible they both were? Two polar opposites of the same magnet. As he saw the flaring anger he was reminded of another memory, far preceding any of these. The strange boy in the office and his intense anger at the fact the painting had not been retrieved yet. This anger, however, was a different kind. It wasn't as heavy, though it was just as remarkable. Before, Neal might call it mercury, poisoning the very air, and sinking into their pores. This was more solid. It was colder too, much like ice. Yes, he did not envy Liam at the moment.

Alfred was most like a die. Several sides, and every time you cast it, you never knew what you were going to get. The odds were always the same, and always as unpredictable.

When he was hovering about six inches away, Alfred stopped, his breath ghosting along the guards neck, where Neal could already see goose bumps popping up.

"You think I would start something against my brother, because of an elbow in the face? What do you think me? . . . You have no clue," Alfred said with light smile, before it turned dangerous.

"Remember your place," He whispered darkly, he then lowered his tone and practically hissed the last word. It was so quiet Neal missed it, but whatever it was, it worked. Neal watched the guard badly suppress the shiver that overtook him.

Alfred stared deeply at the guard who blinked and looked away, giving in to the intense blue-eyed teen.

Alfred had power. Neal couldn't name it, but he knew it instinctively. It was unnerving to say the least. And yet, it was one more layer of mystery to add to Alfred.

One day he would unwrap every layer.

There was a moment of awkward shuffling before Liam regained himself enough to speak.

"Very well. I think I will go double check the perimeter," He muttered, properly cowed as he stepped away, the echo of his footsteps growing quieter as the sound took up residence once more in the entrance way as people possess an innate recognition to when drama is over. There were hushed whispers up and down the room about Alfred and what had happened, no one really understanding what took place a few moments ago. Neal didn't even know and it happened five feet away from him!

Alfred let out a breath, and he turned towards his twin with a vaguely unhappy expression on his face.

"You okay Mattie? Man, you gotta stop letting people walk all over you. It a'int right," Alfred spoke, shaking his head slightly.

"I don't want to talk about it . . . Thank you for forgiving me," Matthew spoke mutedly, steadfastly avoiding his twin's gaze. Alfred relented after a few moments.

"Fine, but don't think we won't talk about this later. He needs to treat you with respect," Alfred warned him.

There was a lull, in which Neal kindly reminded them that they weren't alone with a faint cough.

"Would anyone care to explain to me what just happened?" Neal queried

He received matching deer-in-the-headlight expressions.

Raising an eyebrow, he stared bemusedly as the twins exchanged glances.

The pair was saved from answering by Peter.

"Hey! What's going on down here? Someone told me I'd better go down and see- ah, who are you?" Peter asked with his usual lack of decorum. Neal rolled his eyes, but smiled.

Matthew jumped as though he just realized he never introduced himself.

"O-oh! My name is Matthew Williams, I'm Alfred's brother; it's nice to meet you," He said genuinely, but hesitantly.

"Peter Burke," Peter replied easily, shaking the other's hand.

"And my name is-" Neal began.

"Yes, I know who you are Mr. Caffery," Matthew said sternly, though not entirely unkindly.

"You do?" Neal blinked.

"Yes, I-"

"Mattie works in the Canadian National museum," Alfred interjected giving Neal a particular look.

Peter made a little 'o' sound and Neal couldn't help but notice at how fascinating his shoes were.

"Oh, that explains some things," Neal stated the obvious, for lack of anything better to say and there was an awkward silence.

"So . . . What brings you to New York?" Peter asked slowly.

Matthew seemed to remember the exact reason himself because he turned on his twin with an upset look on his face.

"Alfred! When were you going to tell us you were in a fire?" He demanded pseudo-forcefully.

"Oh-um-"

Neal witnessed the rare event of Alfred being at a loss of what to say.

It was truly cosmic.

"Well?"

"Um-Hey! If you're here, then where is Tony? I thought you were watching out for him for me," Alfred demanded as he changed the subject abruptly. His twin looked a little taken aback, though he recovered quickly.

"Who is Tony? Your dog?" Peter butted in curiously.

"My roommate. He's visiting from far away and I felt terrible leaving him all alone without any entertainment so I sent him to Mattie's! Apparently that wasn't such a good choice," he sniffed," I never knew you were the kind to abandon a friend in need!" He wailed at the end.

Canada rolled his eyes at his brother's melodrama, and dismissed it quickly.

"I left him with Francis. Do you know how dangerous that was! What if something happened to you? You know how it affects all of us! What if-"

"What if a meteor fell? What if dinosaurs came back to life and ate everyone? What if McDonalds closed?" Alfred shuddered, but from the look on his brother's face it was easy to see that Mattie was not amused.

"Look, Mattie . . . Shit happens, and recently, I've discovered a truth that really touches me man. It's a philosophy that can be used throughout all parts of life," Alfred said eyes sparkling with honesty and sincerity. Neal had to give him kudos on the delivery.

"YOLO!" Alfred shouted as he grabbed his brother's glasses and ran out the building.

"Alfred! Give me those back!" The Canadian teen shouted softly as he began chasing after his twin.

Neal and Peter watched them go with exasperated expressions.

"Never a dull moment," Neal commented with a wry smile.

"So what did happen before I came down?" Peter asked, rubbing his face curiously as he noticed the hum of whispers around them.

" . . . Even if I wanted to, I don't think I could explain it; it was too bizarre." And really, not one piece of what happened made sense to Neal. From beginning to end, it was one massive puzzle. Good thing Neal loved puzzles or this might have been a problem. The though made him crack a smile.

It faded when he saw the guard enter the building again, though he hovered far in the back.

He frowned at the way Liam held himself. It was all too Alex-like for his tastes.

A bodyguard who follows around a teenager and calls him 'sir.' It was practically identical to Alfred's situation. Too similar to be coincidence. The manner he behaved and the way he was dressed, he was too professional to be a hired thug or even your run-of-the-mill security guard. He was a professional for someone pretty high up. Neal would even go so far to say the Canadian secret service. If his theory based on what he had observed rang true, then there was a good chance he was protecting more than some museum curator. Sure Matthew was related to Alfred, but if he didn't have the secret, then why pull out the secret service to protect him? That was beyond suspicious.

He watched the two teens chase each other around with sharpened eyes.

Pulling his fedora low, he knew he would have to keep an eye on those two.

When the pair finally made their way back into the building, they seemed mellower, and Neal was suddenly glad Alfred worked off all that excess energy running around instead of bothering him.

"So Mattie, where are you staying?" Alfred asked, slinging an arm over his brother's shoulder easily.

The other twin puffed a little bit, though he held his glasses tightly in his hand, much like a trophy.

"I'm staying at the Hilton right now-"

"No you're not. You're staying with me," Alfred stated rather matter-of-factly.

"Alfred, I-"

"Shouldn't you be asking us?" Peter asked, and Neal gave him an amused look.

"By 'us,' don't you mean me?"

Peter smirked in return.

"And by 'me' don't you mean June? You know, the actual owner of the house?"

"Ah fair enough, but what's another teenager? I mean we already took in Alfred without telling her, not that I had that much of a choice," He muttered the last part before continuing on with false cheer,

"And if anything, Mattie seems to mellow him out a bit," Neal said convincingly.

"But where will he sleep? Alfred's in the only bedroom, I'm already on the couch!" Peter said logically.

"Sleepover!" Alfred shouted excitably.

"See Peter, no worries," Neal said easily.

The truth was that information might be easier to pry out of an unknowing target as opposed to an unwilling one. Also, Neal would much rather be dealing with the soft-spoken twin. He would hopefully be more agreeable to talking than Alfred was when it came to the subject of the blonde's past.

"There you have it Mattie, it's all squared away!"

"But Alfred-"

"I know, you can thank me later,"

When his twin sighed heavily and gave a somewhat dramatic headshake, Alfred smiled, because all was well.

* * *

><p>Neal was correct in his assumption that Mattie did indeed mellow Alfred out, as the trip over to the penthouse lacked any of the usual screaming or singing usually associated with a car ride with Alfred. Obnoxious laughter, however, was plentiful, and if anything increased. Neal wasn't quite sure if it was a fair trade yet.<p>

After being called into Hughes office for and interminable amount of time, Peter was allowed to take the rest of the day off, much to envy of Agent Jones and Berrigan. Neal still wasn't sure how he managed to convince Hughes to let him leave early, but whatever he had said had obviously worked.

"So how long will you be in town?" Peter asked conversationally when they finally set the luggage down in Alfred's room.

"Oh only for a few days. Now that I can tell Arthur that Alfred really is fine, there isn't a need for me to stay long."

Alfred's nose crinkled when he heard this and a distasteful look overcame his face.

"Don't tell me Arthur knows."

"When Alex told me, I couldn't keep it from him! Besides, he deserved to know,"

"Pffft! Who decided that? He ain't my keeper," Alfred said with a pouty expression.

His brother rolled his eyes at that.

"Yes Alfred, we all know how independent you are."

The American gave him a beaming, unapologetic grin. Neal couldn't help but feel that he was once again, missing something from the conversation.

It must be a twin thing, he supposed.

"Wait, how many people exactly know about Alfred's . . . uh _situation,_" Peter asked after fishing a moment for words to describe this strange position.

"Only Mattie and Arthur," Alfred answered.

When Mattie winced, Alfred gave him a look.

The Canadian squirmed and shifted away, and the look intensified.

"Mattie," Alfred growled.

"You know how gossip flies between- uh our group!" He exclaimed, helplessly.

Peter let out a groan.

"How many people are we talkin about?" He wasn't entirely sure he wanted to know.

"Everyone knows something is going on, though only Arthur and I know the whole story. Everyone else just thinks you're screwing around . . ."

Alfred just sighed.

"Eh, it was bound to happen, I guess,"

"Who's everyone?" Peter asked, wondering if Hughes would fire him, or straight out boil him in oil when he found out about the security breach.

"Our friends." The pair answered in stereo.

Definitely oil.

That was definitely suspicious. Something Neal did not fail to note. There was a note of defensiveness in their tone and both of their faces were eerily flat. Definitely hiding something about these friends of theirs.

Neal mentally ran through the ones he knew. There was Veneziano, and Kiku, who played Call of Duty with their charge. Then the phone call from the German one with the annoying ringtone. What was his name? Gideon? Gilmer? Ah, _Gilbert!_ Speaking of calls, there was the angry one from the Italian from earlier today.

Pondering the list over, he realized what a security risk this was.

"Just how many international friends do you have?" Neal asked, speaking aloud. Peter turned to him questioningly, before realization entered his eyes and he immediately caught on to Neal's train of thought.

Roiling, boiling oil.

Alfred thought hard for a few moments.

"Uhm, how many countries are there again?" He asked, scratching his head.

There was a moment of silence.

" . . . You're kidding me," Peter deadpanned.

"Well not all of them are _my _friends, in fact, some I list as enemies, but I mean they're in our group so-" He tried defensively.

"You have got to be joking! What, did you pick a person at random from every country? Who the hell has a friend in every country?" Peter demanded, his face turning red in bewilderment and incredulity. Neal waved his hands innocently as the man turned on him.

"Really, who!"

"Me and Mattie?" Alfred tried, still not understanding what the big deal was.

His brother face-palmed at his twin's density.

"Alfred, there are 196 countries in most counts, though I know you don't accept Mei yet-"

"For damn good reason-"

"-197 if you are talking to Peter-"

Here Peter glanced up confusedly, though he realized they must be speaking of someone else,

"-why would I talk to that twerp? I don't even really know who he is. Not to mention Arthur's wrath for even recognizing him-"

"-and since you are hiding away from the Russian dealers-"

"-I'm not scared of that commie!"

"-or anyone _splatter_ your brains to prove the paintings true-"

"-Like I'd let 'em-"

"-you can understand why you don't want anyone in other countries knowing what's going on!" He shouted the last sentence. Silence met his raised tone.

"Are they playing hockey right now, or what?" Alfred asked, questioning his brother's odd assertiveness.

The other twin face palmed once more.

* * *

><p>OMAKE<p>

"Mr. Floor, I believe it would be within your best interest to state a formal apology or risk a war with the United States," Liam stated coldly to the marble, as though it was the impeccably flat surface that was the cause of the trip.

The floor stayed silent.

They had a stoicism fight.

Liam won.

The marble cried for days later.

* * *

><p>Shout out to season one hetalia with the hug therapy!<p>

Yeah, Liam is a total Douche. So, there is my interpretation of the America/Canada relations.

Thank you all for sticking with me!

Please review with all criticism, comments, love and flames!

REview?


	14. A Day to Practice the Piano

Yo. *That awkward moment when you haven't updated in like forever . . .*

My reasoning is that I have become obsessed with Batman. Seriously, why is he so awesome? I was always a superman girl, but really, I don't think he can compete with the dark Knight! The new movie was unimpressive but it did rekindle my love for the second movie which is amazing. That led to me watching Young Justice. Robin kicks ass. they need more of him.

Also, I started a Rurouni Kenshin and Lotr crossover, so you guys know. Also I have an HPXFma crossover . . . Yeah, I do feel guilty about not updating my baby. (this story.)

Anyways, I am back, with a very long chapter! **Thank you everyone who reviewed! You are why I can't give up writing this story!**

On another note . . . You all really hate Liam, huh? Haha! When I got all the reviews about him I was like . . . Did I create a monster?

I do not own any of the movies referenced below, or the classical songs, or young justice, batman etc. I also do not own Hetalia or White Collar. bleh.

The two songs used later on are,

"Rhapsody in Blue" composed by George Gershwin and,

"Rhapsodie Romantique" composed by Andre Mathieu. (His last name makes my life . . .)

This chapter is more serious than the last, sorry.

I was ecstatic when I found this quote!

So anyways, moving on from the long author's note, I give you the next chapter.

* * *

><p>Chapter 14: A Day to Practice the Piano<p>

"_**T**__rue music must repeat the thought and inspirations of the people and the time. My people are Americans and my time is today." ~ George Gershwin_

* * *

><p>The realization of being awake was a pleasant and gradual process that happened over several minutes. The light glow of the curtains signaled an early awakening, but the soft white color was soothing to the eyes which had seen nothing but darkness for several hours.<p>

Neal slowly opened his lids that were still coated with a thin veneer of sleep, stared at the navy blue duvet before deciding idly to shut them again and roll to another side.

It was five minutes before he realized that his own comforter was white.

It was another five minutes before he remembered that he had fallen asleep in the living room, having been coerced to join the twins in a movie marathon. By "marathon" he supposed that they meant, "you could run seven marathons faster," because to them, it was going through every Harry Potter film, Lord of the Rings, Gone with The Wind and every Jim Carry movie ever created.

Just thinking about it made him exhausted, and he had only tuned in for the last part of it. It really was no wonder he'd fallen asleep somewhere in between The Grinch and Liar Liar.

It was another full ten minutes before the realization that he had slept in one of his favorite suits bothered him enough to get off of the makeshift bed.

Rising, he took a long, rewarding stretch skyward that sounded with a few cracks coming from his back. A dull ache reprimanded him for sleeping on the floor, even though the boys had compiled a truly awe-inspiring fortress of blankets and pillows.

Speaking of, the pair of them were sleeping away just a few feet away. Alfred still had the remote in his hand, and Matthew was clutching a white teddy bear tightly. They were curving their bodies naturally to mirror each other, creating the illusion of a circle. In fact, if Neal looked closely, he could see that the rising and falling of their chests were perfectly in sync. He shook his head. Twin things. As though Alfred wasn't odd enough on his own. They were so close, that their foreheads barely brushed together. Though, what really caught his eye was the fact that their wrists were crossed and that hand was supporting the other's head as they slept. Amazing.

It was undeniably a sweet sight.

It wasn't sweet enough for Neal to ignore the warzone that the marathon had brought about. Popcorn buckets were strewn everywhere with little buttered shrapnel falling out the wazoo. There were even pieces in the twin's hair.

Even with all his exasperation, he couldn't help but smile.

They really did have fun last night.

Glancing around, he noticed the absence of Peter. The busy bee was probably already up, getting a decent cup of coffee before he attempted his crossword puzzles for the day. Years of consistently getting up at six every morning had effectively ruined the Fed's ability to sleep in.

Neal liked sleeping in, though when he wanted to he could get up. Recently though, it didn't matter how much he slept, he still felt as tired as before he started.

Not today it seemed. It took him a moment to realize how well-rested he truly did feel. The feeling being all-but foreign to him.

Ache in his back aside, couldn't remember the last time he had slept so well. Not since Kate's death at the least, maybe even before that. Dim surprise greeted him when he didn't feel the normal wave of depression that came with thinking of Kate.

Perhaps that was because it was the first night since the explosion that he hadn't dreamt of her death.

That must've been the source of his good sleep. He paused as he chased the fleeing thoughts of his dreams.

He had a dream about butterflies and skyscrapers and it had been in the most vivid colors he had ever seen.

It made him smile to himself.

Color. He never thought he could miss it so much until it was pulled from his subconscious like a pair of jeans that slowly lose their shade every time you wash them. But now, he could see it. He could practically smell it; his world was so saturated in the hues.

He basked in the simple fact.

It was then that he had felt an urge that had lie dormant for years. A strange urge that built a hot spot in his chest, like the kind you get from whiskey; the slow warming sensation.

It was an urge to paint.

Neal painted all the time. Whether it was renditions of Gogh or simply theories or styles that he wanted to discuss with Mozzie and even sometimes it was to make exact replicas for a con or a job with Peter. For the life he led, it was an essential quality to be able to paint. And Neal had to say he was fairly adept at that particular skill.

All that said, he hadn't painted something original in two decades, not since he was in school, when it was expected that he create his own artwork. The problem was that his interest was always held by other people's art. His own work seemed second-rate and unimportant by comparison.

But today he felt the desire, urge and need to create something of his own. He was almost as frightened of this feeling as he was enamored and helpless to its charms.

To create for the sake of creating.

He smiled at the strange and silly thought before he pulled an easel from the cupboard, which were always handy in his loft, and pulling off his suit jacket and setting it on arm chair.

Collecting the supplies he needed from the storage closet, he began.

Deciding to start with his strange dream of butterflies flying through the skyscrapers of New York, he mixed the depthless blues and royal purples carefully on his pallet, feeling the colors would help inspire him in his sketching process. The tall edifices rose from the white backdrop seemingly of their own intent, as though Neal was merely a viewer of their growing majesty, but he knew that he was the conductor in this symphony, directing the parts where to go and the perfect balance to strike. Keeping the tunes and themes in harmony, he decided it was time to add the color, and he created a contrast so striking, he felt that even the men who had built the monstrous buildings that were a testament to their ability to create beyond themselves, and whatever deity designed the butterfly, would both be in awe of what had become.

He was about halfway through when he was jolted from his artistic haze by a question.

"What are you doing up so early?" Peter asked, standing in the doorway with a newspaper in one hand, and a pastry and coffee in the other.

"Good morning Peter," Neal greeted, never one to dismiss the importance of manners, despite how fascinating this project was.

He was eager for Peter to leave so he could once more grant the entirety of his attentions onto his piece. Unfortunately, Neal had jumped though when he had seen the fed. Jumpy Neal usually meant that he was trying to hide something, which all equaled suspicious Peter. It was possibly the most obnoxious and encumbering equation Neal had ever happened upon.

"Boys still asleep?" Peter asked as he slowly meandered closer to the painting. Neal gave a nod as he smoothed the sheen onto the building's windows.

"You never answered my question from before," Peter commented. Neal sighed and gave up on trying to focus on the paining.

You can take the fed out of the interrogation room . . .

"Why don't you see for yourself?" Neal offered, gesturing to his work.

Peter pounced on the offer and quickly moved around the easel so he could see what Neal was so intent on.

It would be an understatement to say Peter was surprised by what he saw.

"Wow, this is a good one," Peter complimented. The buildings scraped the clear sky, the windows magically seemed to catch the suns glare like mirrors and flying past it mid-stroke were six butterflies all iced with blues and purples pulled from the deepest oceans.

"Thank you,"

"I don't think I recognize the artist though, who did the original?" Peter asked, squinting at the careful brushstroke detail.

"I did. Well I suppose, I _am_ working on the original right now," he answered taking a little pleasure in Peter's surprised expression, before the fed concealed it.

"Huh, I don't think I've ever seen any of your own artwork. It's nice. You have good style and technique, Neal," The fed remarked offhandedly.

"Thanks," Neal said avoiding his partner's praise, feeling inexplicably shy for some reason now that Peter knew that it was Neal's own work on display. But that was stupid. He brushed away the feeling. What was he, five?

"Alfred said something about making us breakfast last night, and I like that idea, just checking, but you're fine with him using the kitchen right if he wants to right?" Peter asked politely, though Neal saw that it was really an excuse to come over and talk. Sighing inwardly at the other man's transparent motives, he snorted aloud.

"Like I have a choice in the matter? He invited himself in my pantry his first night over."

"Let's hope he makes less pancakes this time around. He was lucky that the homeless shelter down the street was serving breakfast around the time," Peter said remembering the last time Alfred made breakfast for them and the monstrous amount of pancakes they had left over.

"Maybe the stomach is a genetic thing," Neal suggested with a slight smile, as he looked over at the Canadian teen.

"Well in this case, let's hope so," Peter said, he ended the topic by walking over to the counter where he planted himself, prepared to finish the crosswords today.

It wasn't until a few minutes later, when the scratching of Peter's pen had become part of the soundtrack of life, that Neal slowly turned his eyes back to his painting.

Though it really was a brilliant painting, it wasn't really what he wanted to work on right now. Since he had captured the initial idea, and no longer had to worry about forgetting it or losing the important details, he felt fine about setting it aside and relieving the itch that had built up. He had the will, he just needed the inspiration.

It was when he was staring at the rod gold paint that he realized what he really wanted to be drawing that day.

Setting aside his skyscrapers in the closet for later, he pulled out his sketchpad and his set of quality colored pencils.

After a few minutes of careful sketching he started to frown. Carefully erasing the feather-light lines, he tried again. More erasing. Alfred's head was more oval, wasn't it?

Carefully arching the lead lines he ended up with something akin to a balloon or an almond. That wasn't the slightest bit right, surely it curved more like this. The shavings were piling up as he tried unsuccessfully to get the exact shape he was looking for. Frustrated, he wiped the little rubber stubbles to the side ungraciously. Now he began erasing harder, the lightly-textured canvas began to lose its slight bumps and grey lines were appearing even after serious erasing. Even after just drawing a line or two, it didn't seem right to his eyes and he ended up erasing it almost immediately. Hissing, he unceremoniously pulled the page off the stand and dropped it to the floor before pulling starting on a new one.

Maybe it would go better if he just went ahead and painted the kid without sketching, that way he couldn't overthink it as much.

Grabbing his set of smaller paints, he decided to try that tactic. After several irritating minutes of painting he stared at the base coat of peach-colored skin with loathing. He gave up on that page too.

Letting out a slow breath, he pulled his hands behind his head and did a slow circuit around the room, trying to ease the stress that came with this new project of his. Alfred's mop of gold hair seemed to mock his silently as he moved around the room. He glared back, before catching Peter giving him a raised brow. He subtly flushed before moving back to his chair.

Raising the brush, he hesitated before even placing a stroke. It was then he realized how ridiculous he was being.

He laughed at himself, he'd only had it for ten minutes and already he was sweating it.

Perhaps because this was the first time in years he'd really struggled with getting exactly what he needed onto the paper. Usually it just came to him naturally, so this was pretty strange for him.

'_Fitting because my subject is strange too,_' He thought with a smile.

He squatted for a minute, staring at the second canvas thoughtfully.

'_Is this always how it is when you draw your own pieces?'_ He wondered to himself, finding a new level of respect for other original artists.

Pulling himself up, he decided to try something he hadn't done in a while, figuring it might help unjam his brain.

Delicately turning to a new page, he set it on his easel for a better view, almost as an apology for treating it off so roughly before.

He lined up the colors on his pallet in a perfect color wheel and memorized where they were before turning back to his canvas and shutting his eyes. In order to pull this off, you would need the skills of a brilliant mind and a fantastic artist, both of which Neal had in spades.

Feeling the edges of the canvas, he created a mental rendition of the plane he was working with in his mind. This was his world to create in and he had just set up the perimeters.

Dipping his brush in the gold, he imagined Alfred's hair. The various shades and hues of differing yellows and ochre, he could picture them perfectly in his head and he dropped the on the canvas with careful swoops and elegant lines. Then he imagined the piercing blue eyes. They seemed to swallow everything, engulf Alfred's entire face; the entire world; the entire picture, in blue. He swirled the shades and added them high on the picture. He felt like a man possessed as he carefully pulled the movements and quirks of Alfred's face onto the picture.

Inside his mind he saw a perfect rendition of the smiling teen.

Snapping out of his artistic spell, he flipped open his eyes and stared blankly at what was before him.

Tall waving wheat swayed in the wind, thin lines of spun gold reaching for the sky. Above was a sea so cerulean it ate up half the page, flecks of white the only reminder that clouds existed.

His hand was shaking slightly and he swallowed hard.

He tried to draw Alfred and instead he drew a prairie.

That was not right.

Unable to comprehend how exactly that happened, he touched the paint carefully and unbelievingly. The cold wet substance was enough to remind him that it was real.

Staring at the mixture of gold and blue in his hand, he couldn't help but wonder to himself,

"What the hell."

Carefully ripping the sheet off and placing it delicately on a nearby coffee table to dry, he stared at the blank page. A wave of frustration overcame him and he quickly closed off his sight and tried again, this time he put extra attention into Alfred's facial features, especially that annoying cow-lick. The lines, like before, practically poured from his hand without any prompting. He was certain he had it this time.

. . . Decidedly not.

An African-American woman stood on the coast of an Island, her dress was flapping in the breeze and her large sunhat blotted out the rays. In the distance, little white houses with 19th century architecture dotted the horizon.

Absolutely gob-smacked, he stared at the paper disbelievingly. One time was really something, but a second time? That was just occult. There was something screwy going on. But he had to be sure.

Tentatively he closed his eyes and tried again.

This time, he decided to try starting with the glasses. He would just do a simple outline of those and then he'd stop. Perhaps if he did it step-by-step then he wouldn't keep repeating his past mistakes. He dipped his brush in the black and outlined the simple, yet elegant lines of the frames.

He took a deep breath before peeking from under his eyelashes.

Before him sat a political map of what seemed to be Texas.

He was going insane.

"Are you drawing maps now?" Peter queried from his stool, and Neal face-palmed.

Perhaps he wasn't quite as well-rested as he first thought; in fact, there was a pretty good chance this was all a dream. Neal gave an uncharacteristic grunt in reply before pulling one of the duvets out from under the teens and tromping over to his bed in the alcove and flopping on the mattress.

"Artists are so touchy," Peter commented to himself with a sigh.

"Now then, eight-letter word for the clue 'Ozymandais supposed inspirer.' Hm . . . . Ah! Of course, Ramesses!"

Clearly.

Neal shut his eyes and tried to ignore the occasional exclamations of his partner. Crossword-ers were so weird. Eventually he drifted back off to sleep.

He dreamt of kings and sand.

* * *

><p>The sounds of tinkling chords roused him from sleep this time. The lethargy of sleeping half of the day away kept Neal in his bed for a few moments. However, the melody was persistent, and his curiosity defeated his apathy and fatigue. Pulling himself off of the bed, he took a moment to stare at his clothes in dismay. Really, he should have changed out of his suit the first time he awoke. Then again, he was so possessed by his work, he couldn't have spared even a few seconds.<p>

The reminder of his paintings left him with a faintly sour taste in his mouth as he remembered his botched attempts at drawing Alfred.

It was the strangest thing, and his overwhelming bemusement only deepened the mystery of Alfred.

Perhaps Matthew could help him with his plight.

Speaking of, where had the two gone off to? He noticed for the first time that he was alone in his loft. Something that hadn't happened since Alfred had arrived a month or so ago. Oddly, it didn't feel quite as good as it should have. He dismissed the thought, and decided to discover the source of the music. After changing his clothes, that is.

Fastening the last button on one of his more casual dress-shirts, he strode into the hallway, where the music was much louder. He paused as he determined which way seemed louder, and after a little deliberation began walking to the less-used west side.

He chose correctly, and as he came closer he was able to notice that there were in fact two melodies being played. There would be a few measures of one piece and then a second of pause, before the other one would take over. They contrasted greatly, one being more of a jazz style and the next a sweeping romantic type.

The first he recognized almost right away as being "Rhapsody in Blue" by Gershwin. The dramatic hook easy to recognize. The second though he doubted he's ever heard before though it was also very good.

He arrived outside of one of June's many parlors that supposedly were used to entertain her guests, though she admitted that they were more for show than anything else.

The door was open, and peering through he saw Alfred and Matthew seated side by side on stairway grand, all of the dust was smoothed away and its black lacquered surface shone brightly in the light. After years of disuse, it seemed impossibly happy at being used again.

Alfred was currently playing one of the roaring bridges, with loud dynamics and energy, his fingers dipped playfully through the sea of white and black keys, drawing only the best notes from its depths. The version Alfred was playing was faster than the others that Neal had heard, and he was in awe at how fast the teens fingers slid across the keys. The intense look of concentration was only ruined by the smile that broke past his lips, despite the fact his tongue was stuck out in concentration. A few beads of sweat flew as he labored under his instrument, a slave to the melody he was creating.

Suddenly he paused at the end of a measure, and with quick glance to Matthew that seemed to say, "I dare you," he folded his arms a little and leant back in his chair.

Milliseconds later, the Canadian teen was in position, and dropped the first few chords. Unlike Alfred's piece which was jazzy and quick moving, Matthew's was undeniably emotional, and a good deal slower. He painted his own picture; his usual semi-visible presence was never more unignorable to Neal as he captivated him with an all-encompassing story of wistfulness and love. Then at the drop of a hat it became marginally darker and almost oppressive. His deft fingers danced over the key-board, but he like Alfred seemed to be enjoying the activity with the entirety of his being.

Alfred's frown became pursed, and without even waiting for his twin to stop, he began picking up his melody in the middle of the other measure. Neal could practically hear New York in his playing. Matthew shot him a smirk that seemed a little uncharacteristic on his face before rolling his eyes and redoubling his own efforts.

Alfred grinned eagerly. Together they twined two very different pieces together. The volume rose as they challenged each other more and more. The rising dynamic did nothing for the contrast of melodies. Their arms wove in and out of the others as they reached across to pluck out the notes they needed. Never once did they bump into each other as they attacked the keys with synchronized ferocity. The playful grins were firmly planted on both faces.

Eventually the speed became a singular idea, and as both pieces reached their emotional arches, Neal was overwhelmed with the beauty of what they had created. In the distance he thought he could faintly hear a waterfall crashing in the distance, but dismissed the thought.

As the final echoes of the notes faded away, Alfred let out a loud laugh shattering the silence their playing had cast.

"Gee Mattie, you sure gave Gershwin a run for his money!" Alfred stated as he pat his brother a little too hard on the back. The other man jolted visibly but seemed more shaken than angry, though he sent a weak-glare his brother's way.

"You mean Gerswin gave Andre a run for his money. _Rhapsodie Romantique_ was composed before yours after all," He tried logically, trailing off a bit at the end.

"Haha whatever you say Mattie, but you know what they say, quality over age!" He laughed making his twin sigh.

"I don't think anyone says that actually Alfred."

"Well I say it, and I count for like three hundred million people!" He exclaimed extravagantly, referencing his citizens, pleased at having beaten his brother with logic.

"Just because you do, doesn't mean they all do," Matthew tried to explain.

Neal shifted closer. Who were _they_? Matthew seemed to hear the rustling of his clothes because his head whipped around to where Neal was standing, just barely in view. The violet-eyed teen started visibly, and his face grew red.

"Oh! Neal, we didn't even notice you were awake, I hope it wasn't the music, I mean we tried to keep it down, but we can both get carried away I suppose, and not just Alfred, but me too, but that usually isn't until it's hockey season and when he said that Gershwin was better than Canadian composers I guess I got a little heated but I-um-" He cut himself off, seeming to realize he was rambling, and his beet-red face immediately turned to the ground. Neal was suddenly reminded of the other day with Liam, the guard. That time Liam was upset with him for doing something at risk to Alfred or something that Neal had missed. There was something screwy with these twins. Alfred seemed to be watching him with a peculiar glint in his eyes.

"No, I wasn't woken up by the music, don't worry about it," He let slip a little white lie and was rewarded with a watery smile.

"Oh that's good to know," He replied in a subdued manner.

Alfred gave him an approving look but the moment Neal had blinked it was gone in a flash and replaced by it was an impenetrable, unreadable smile.

"I didn't know you could play the piano. You're both very good," Neal complimented, and Mattie gave him a happy smile despite the fact he was blushing from the praise.

"Thanks," Alfred replied simply.

"Where did you both learn to play like that? I don't think I've ever seen anything like it." And he doubted he ever would again, the mixing of two ridiculously complex melodies was not a feat to be taken lightly. The performance truly was once and a life time.

The duo exchanged a quick glance.

"We just sort of picked it up," They answered in stereo.

Neal sweat-dropped. That is what Alfred had said about learning languages too. The way they said it was as though it was just something that came naturally in time, and the very idea of that playing just coming to them without proper tutoring was ludicrous. Alfred scratched his head, recognizing the signs of disbelief in his citizen. He decided to expand a bit on their answer, the more truth they could get in the more likely Neal would believe it.

"You know, we've had a lot of teachers. Each of them made their mark on us, and I think we gained far more from them then most know. And I men, they were such great people. Even if it took us a while to recognize their greatness." The look in Alfred's eyes was far, far away as he remembered something Neal couldn't fathom. Matthew as well seemed caught up in memories.

They let out sighs at the same time, before coming back to the present.

Perhaps it was how close they were that allowed them to play like that. Alfred and Mattie were two amazing kids; he wouldn't put it past them.

The minute after he thought that, the smile broke over Alfred's face and he was back to being an annoying teen in lieu of a piano prodigy.

"C'mon, let's get some lunch! All that piano playing worked up an appetite!" Alfred cheered as he dragged his twin to the kitchen for some serious Pancake time.

"Hopefully Mr. Burke is back from the store, I can't believe you used all their flour making pancakes last time Al, . . . We still need to feed Kuma too." Mattie said, mostly to himself.

"Who's Kuma?" Neal asked, almost worried that they had another guest.

"He's a polar-"

"He's my teddy bear," Matthew quickly jumped it, cutting off his twin, as well as reminding him that non-countries only saw him as a stuffed animal, as the bear was the representation for all the Kumajirou bear's in Canada. It was a good thing too, because Matthew was pretty sure that if Neal knew there was a fully grown bear sleeping in his loft he might freak out.

"C'mon! Let's go already," he said tugging on his brother's coat and the violet-eted twin allowed himself to be dragged back to the kitchen.

As then sounds of their retreat became fainter, Neal gave the ebony piano one last look, before he followed them.

* * *

><p>It was thin, and shimmering, almost like a piece of sunlight had been woven into cloth. The wind rustled around it, the rippling along the surface, reflecting the invisible air currents.<p>

He already knew what lay below, but that just made the excitement that much more visceral.

Closing his eyes, he took a breath and pulled-

"Alfred! What did I tell you! Stop trying to look at the painting!" Peter scolded as he hurried over and snatched the painting up, cloth and all.

"I just wanted a peek is all," Alfred said with a pouty look.

"And I just want you to keep your grimy hands to yourself!" Peter exclaimed protectively.

Alfred rolled his eyes.

"It's just a stupid painting. Not even a cool American one, a lame German one," Alfred sulked, and Neal resisted the urge to face-palm.

Neal just shook his head at the teen's odd obsession with American things. It really was almost too ridiculous to be legitimate at times. They couldn't take the kid grocery shopping because every few minutes he'd drop something into the cart with the reasoning, "It will help the economy!" Seriously, Alfred could turn it down a bit.

With his almost intense love of all tings American, coupled with his unorthodox dress code and his off-the-wall attitude, it really should have been a total train-wreck. (At times, Neal thought it was.) It should have been a steaming pile of red-neck-ity-ness. Alfred had certainly shown that he could be redneck, when the occasion struck him, much to Neal's horror. And yet, there was something about it that worked for the teen. He was redneck, but he was also classy, gangster swagged and alternative, metal and country, crude and refined, stupid and smart, shallowly-deep. God, it was supposed to be an atomic-_bomb _crash. In fact it hurt Neal's head just trying to wrap his head around it.

Why, oh why, did they get stuck with Alfred? Neal really wondered what cosmic forces were involved in this decision, because he had a thing or two to say to them.

And yet . . .

Something about the teen made it work. Something drew it all together and made it seem fantastic somehow. Neal supposed it could be like an art piece, many different art elements working together to create a singular impression.

And there was no denying that Alfred made quite an impression.

Neal was as captive to the strange kind of allure and draw the teen had, as everyone else. It made it so hard to not like him. He shied away from the alien feeling, its lack of logic bothering him deeply.

Neal was stirred out of his thoughts by Peter snapping in his face.

"You there, space cadet?" Peter asked waving in front of his eyes. Neal smacked the offending hand away.

"Let's just drop the painting off and get back home. I don't want any side-tracking or distractions, just in and out; you hear me?" Peter asked firmly.

"Yes mom," Alfred said sarcastically.

"I'm serious you two, no funny business. I have reservations with Elle tonight and there is no way I'm missing it!"

"Did you buy her those earrings I suggested?" Neal asked idly as they walked up to the mansion. The walkway was impressive. White rock led the way and greenery and flowers blossomed aside it. The excess garden gave each of them a good idea of what kind of clients they were dealing with.

As an answer to Neal's question, Peter flashed him a little blue velvet box.

"Think she'll like them?"

"I know she will," Neal said with a smile.

Peering over, Alfred took a quick peek into Peter's mind.

"-_hope she like my anniversary plans . . . never know what to get her. . . . She would to go to Bali again like last year . . . can't take the time off of work. . . . Neal has good taste in jewelry, I'll give him that . . . . . Even if most of the time he is a pain in my a-"_

Pulling away with a thoroughly amused face, Alfred shook his head.

"Ah, it's Peter's anniversary today," Neal explained. Alfred faked a sound of understanding.

"I see!"

"Yes it is, and this is exactly why we are not going to be late for any reason, right?"

"Why are you looking at me?" Neal asked, offended.

"Like you don't know!" Peter exclaimed.

Alfred just laughed, and Peter sent him a serious look. He held his tongue, though the smile was plain as day on the teen's face.

"I'm serious," The older man growled and Alfred made some innocent gestures.

"Hey man, I'm all for getting outta here early! The sooner we get out, the sooner I can hang out with Mattie!" Alfred exclaimed, and Neal and Peter both stifled sighs as they remembered what an event trying to separate the two had been.

Alfred didn't seem to notice their exasperated faces.

It had only been through half-an-hour of soft, logical pleading that Alfred finally parted from his twin, arguing that Mattie should come along with them on their delivery job today.

Luckily, Mattie had some business to attend while he was in New York. Alfred still seemed half-intent of Mattie coming, but when his twin leaned in close and whispered something into his ear he's let him go. So after a rather cold staring contest between Liam and Alfred, as the guard came to collect his charge, they had finally said goodbye.

Matthew's last words still confused Neal.

"_Besides, you'd know if I left, wouldn't you?" Mattie asked with a reassuring smile as he stepped into the cab._

"So are we going to do this, or what?" Alfred asked, shaking Neal out of his musings.

Giving into the sigh this time, Peter rang the doorbell with a small prayer on his lips. '_Please, please, let us get in and out quickly,_"

The maid quickly escorted them to the family room. The house looked more like an art gallery than a living space. While Neal certainly admired the aesthetics, he couldn't help but feel that there was a point where it became too excessive. Then again, if any phrase had to describe the wealthy in this country, excessive would be it. And the Teague's were definitely wealthy.

Neal, like most who paid attention to the politics, had heard of the Teague's. They were central in the upper rings of New York. The power couple had taken the scene by storm after inheriting a large fortune from a dead grandfather. They had used the money as funds for investing, and with a bit of luck, they had become one of the richest couples in New York. In spring Jackson Teague would be running for senator.

They reached the spacious living room where three figures waited for them. Mrs. Andrea Teague was a thin woman with striking cheekbones and a little-black dress to match. She sat elegantly on the couch, legs crossed, giving the men a good look at her bronzed calves. She looked to be of Persian descent, with her dark hair pulled back into an efficient, yet fashionable ponytail. It really only accented how beautiful her face was.

However, upon that beautiful little face of hers, was a frown, which even Neal found off-setting, and he loved women of all kinds of attitudes.

Jackson Teague was staring out the window at the nearby skyscrapers. The designer suit cut him an impressive figure. Black frames outlined his mud-colored eyes, and upon noticing their entry, he turned and glanced at them appraisingly.

"Hello, I'm from the FBI, my name is Peter Burke. This is my partner Neal Caffery, and our assistant Alfred. You must be the Teauge's," The leading Fed greeted professionally. He struck his hand out awkwardly after shifting the painting to his other arm. Jackson shook it after a moment of deliberation. Andrea rose and approached the group.

Neal's eyes narrowed as he noticed the distance between the two adults. They were even leaning away from the other. Interesting. Perhaps it wasn't as perfect as the papers would lead them to believe. He remembered what Peter said and kept the little factoid to himself, though his love of creating a bit of drama sighed.

"Hello, my name is Jackson, and this is my wife Andrea," He responded. The woman stared at them coldly, an entire aura of aloofness settling around her body. If the phrase 'looking down their nose,' could be applied to anyone, it surely was her.

"It's a pleasure," Neal returned her coldness with a subtly sharp look to her as he bent over to kiss her hand. It was missed by everyone else, but it simply was meant to show that he would play that game with her if she wanted to. She raised an eye-brow.

"He doesn't look like an assistant. He looks seventeen." Neal and Peter started and turned around to see a boy about the age of thirteen staring at them with a vaguely accusing look. His black hair hung in his face, and he jerked every so often to fix his straightened black locks so that they would fall to the right side.

"I apologize for our son's behavior. Thomas can sometimes come off as being too direct," Jackson said, moving to stand behind his son, as he placed a chastising hand on his shoulder. The boy brushed it off without even looking, still staring at Alfred suspiciously.

"I assure you, Alfred's old enough to be interning here," Peter said with what he thought was a warm smile, though it came off a little patronizing in his impatience. The child wasn't amused. He sent a brooding glare over to Peter whose smile turned tight.

"Anyways, let's move on, shall we? We have your painting," Peter announced, clearing his throat. Grabbing the cloth, he pulled the sheet clean off of the frame.

The painting was only a foot and a half or so long both ways. The colors were dark, and they outlined a singular man with a ruffled collar. The subtle shades showed the texture of his clothes, and the expression on the man's face was only hinted at.

Alfred was all-in-all, remarkably unimpressed by _Portrait of a Man. _Seriously, pop-art was waay cooler than this drab piece.

"Ah, how did you find it," Jackson said, taking the piece into his hands and giving it a good look over.

"Our team caught the burglar trying to fence it a few days ago, they were able to catch them and retrieve it." There was so much more to it than that, but Peter knew they didn't really want to hear the schematics for the days of hard work necessary to catch the thieves. Especially all the paper-trails they had to chase down. People really only wanted to hear about the arrest. Typical.

Neal was envious. That sort of job is what Peter and he would be doing. Now they were restricted to paper-trails, mortgage fraud and the odd delivery job. It really was no wonder that Neal had taken to creating a little drama with his extra-ordinary observational skills. He resisted today though. Peter and Elle deserved to have their anniversary to themselves.

"I can't tell you how grateful we are for you returning the painting to us," Jackson said, and there truly was some gratitude in his eyes. Andrea nodded in agreement.

"It's just a stupid German piece . . ." Alfred mumbled in the corner and Peter elbowed him.

"It's no trouble at all. I recognize that you are a fan of Hans Von Aachen, and I doubt there is better place for this piece to be," Neal said smoothly commenting on the numerous paintings by said artist in their gallery.

"It's that obvious? Yes, I do greatly admire his work. We only have a few originals, the rest are copies, though hopefully we can acquire more someday," The man of the house gave a happy little smile, as he looked at his collection.

"You know, even the copies are artful in their own way. I don't think I've ever seen such a good copy of _The Portrait of Joseph Heintz _in my life," Neal complimented expertly.

The smile on Jackson Teauge's face froze before melting into confusion.

"I think you're mistaken, that is the original," He informed Neal kindly.

Neal was caught in an awkward smile, and it was his turn to be confused.

"Believe me when I tell you that I know what I'm talking about. If you look here, you'll see the brushwork in the left corner is all going down and to the left. That is the stroke of a let-handed painter, when Hans was certainly a right-handed painter. The rest of the painting is perfect, but I imagine they slipped on that last corner. It is hard, after all to paint against your natural tendencies," Neal explained.

Jackson Leaned forward intensely, snatching the painting up, off of the hook and staring intently at it. The intense look faded, as understanding dawned on him followed by horror.

"Where's the original then?!" He demanded of Neal who took a step back from the man.

"Jackson, calm down. Yelling isn't going to solve anything," Andrea said moving to offer some form of comfort for her husband. Her face remained as impassive as ever though.

Peter sidled up to Neal and whispered to him through his teeth.

"I only asked for you not to do one thing, and you can't even manage to drop off a simple painting without creating an incident! Seriously try keeping your mouth closed sometime," Peter hissed.

"Would you rather I left this undiscovered?" Neal asked raising an eyebrow to Peter who made a gruff noise. He knew Peter was too good of a man for that.

"Well no, but couldn't you have miraculously remembered this tomorrow?" Peter grumbled a little, before resigning to his fate.

"Can either of you remember the last time you had the painting authenticated?" The Fed asked flipping into business mode. Andrea, who was absently rubbing her husband's back answered.

"Two weeks ago after we had the portrait stolen, I had a someone come by to authenticate all the paintings, to make sure they hadn't stolen another one, or replaced it," she informed them.

"I'm assuming they all checked out okay then?" Peter asked, and he received a nod.

"So that leaves us with a two week window from when the painting could have gotten stolen. . ."

"Do you think the burglars could have gotten in a second time?" Jackson wondered.

"It's possible, though I think it is a little unlikely. They would be stupid to try kitting the same mark twice only a few weeks apart. Not to mention that with the added security and detectives dropping by," Neal put forth his opinion. He knew that from a thieves point of view such an attempt would be foolish.

"Could one of the detectives maybe have done it?" Jackson asked, crossing his arms. Peter visibly bristled and had to bite his tongue or risk saying something he might regret.

"I mean sticky hands, the painting may have just been too tempting."

Oh he was asking for it.

"Listen you, every member of the team are professionals, who have been heavily screened and even accusing them-" Peter started, but Neal cut him off before he got too carried away.

"When they came by, they weren't ever alone with the painting were they?"

Jackson looked like he wanted to say something in retaliation, but wasn't able to. Instead he shook his head reluctantly.

"Then there is no way they could have replaced the painting with a copy, besides someone would have noticed them carry it out," Neal explained, and Peter shot him a grateful look. Jackson grudgingly accepted the answer.

"That being said, you haven't allowed any visitors in recently, have you?"

"No, we took the inspectors advice and kept people out of the house," Andrea answered.

A wide grin spread over Peter's face and understanding lit Neal's eyes.

"What does that mean?" Jackson asked, noting the look shared between the two of them.

"Alright! Finally something interesting!" Alfred cheered. Peter sent him a chastising look that was ruined by the faint smile tugging on his lips.

"That means, that this was an inside job," Peter replied turning on the two of them.

"If you would be so kind to turn your phones over to us so we can begin to conduct the questioning?"

* * *

><p>Ha, yeah I wanted to finish this little section before the end of this chapter, but I fear it could get too long . . . Besides, what a cut-off point? :}<p>

Speaking of length,

**WOOHOO! WE OFFICIALLY HAVE REACHED 100,000 WORDS! AWW YEAH!**

**100,000 WORD PARTY**

Anyways, the idea with Neal trying to paint America, is on that I;ve been sitting on for a while actually. It was supposed to be in chapter 12 or 11 I think, but it didn't fit right, so I had to movie it.

The idea is that Since Neal does not understand everything that America is, he can't draw the single entity Alfred is.

The first image where Neal draws the great prairie, the second in one of his citizens in Nantucket, and the third, is clearly a political map of Texas.

It is most likely impossible to mix those two songs, but I thought it would be cool to try. The piano piece was a request from a reviewer! Here you are!~

Yeah, Gerswhin was actually compsoing before Andre, but lets ignore that . . .

There are 300,000,000 people in America, so America is technically right . . . .

Anyways, thank you for reading. I hope to reach 300 reviews before I post the next chapter.

So Please** RE**view?


	15. A Day in my Arm's Reach

Let it be said, that I have problems.

Hello chicklets, long time no see. Thank you so much for the reviews! I have been outrageously busy and as such I have had extraordinarily little time in front of a computer.

Sad, I know.

For those of you following "Wandering Rurouni," I plan on updating that later this month.

one of my fav quotes!~

WARNING! THE FIRST HALF OF THE CHAPTER IS VERY SERIOUS AND THE SECOND IS CRACKISH! BE PREPARED!

I own nothing.

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><p>Chapter 15<p>

A Day in my Arm's reach

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><p><em>"American history is longer, larger, more various, more beautiful, and more terrible than anything anyone has ever said about it."~ James A. Baldwin <em>

* * *

><p>Following Peter's announcement there were a few moments of blessed silence. In Which America could hear the sound of the jet soaring thousands of miles above them. Suzanne Collins, seat C12 was currently reading "The Adventure of Huckleberry Finn" in a vain attempt to distract herself from her overwhelming fear of flying. Her fingers were shaking, trembling so much that she could barely read the black ink of the words on the pages. Brian Edwards who sat beside her was watching "Airplane" on his laptop. Chuckling at the humorous writing, he was totally ignorant of her plight. Also how the movie was aiding her fears as she saw all the pilots fall unconscious. His laughter smothered her quiet shakes. Catherine DeMars, the obligatory third seat member swirled her wine absentmindedly as she idly placed the six of diamonds below the seven of clubs. Her eyes were dulled as the monotony of playing a twelfth round of solitaire set in.<p>

America spied them way above the clouds. A small smile spread across his face. It was his motto to help those within his arm's length.

America's arms did reach longer than most thought was practical.

Taking in a breath of air, he kept it within his soul, and it swirled with his dreams and thoughts for a few moments.

Then he exhaled, a breeze stirred the air of the building, though it knew intrinsically that is was meant for more than this interior airspace. Finding an open window it escaped into the sunlight. Like a bereft helium balloon, it strained towards the sun. It floated up, propelled by intent and whimsy only.

It collided with the plane, flinging its unnamed force against the white underbelly of the sky-shark. The cylinder tilted suddenly, the metal wings jilted for a few moments trying to compensate for the sudden attack of turbulence.

Within the cabin, there were a few moments of utter panic, felt by even the most experienced flyers. After no more than thirty seconds the plane was righted and the people within began to compose themselves once more.

Suzanne Collins embarrassedly released the death grip she had on her companion's shirt. Brian Edwards stared at her is true concern, finally feeling the shaking and seeing the slight edge of wetness welling up on her lids. Comforting words were averred and shaky laughs were acquired with corny lines and half-jokes. In the third seat, Catherine DeMars scrambled as she attempted to pick up her cards which had been sent across the seats.

Suzanne Collins plucked a stray ace from the collar of her seat mate. Staring at it, Brian Edwards seemed to realize what had happened and then all three of them were fumbling around as they searched for the rest of the cards.

Deciding that more could not be found they ended up sitting back down in their seats. Brian Edwards offered his section of the deck back to Catherine DeMars. Then, he righted his laptop which had blessedly not fallen to the floor. He prepared to set the noise-cancellers back on his head, as Suzanne Collins stared at her section of the deck with a little contemplation.

A proposition fell from her lips, braver than she thought. Her companions stared at her blankly for a moment, before exchanging glances.

Her nervousness was dispelled as they smiled and gave their assents.

Folding the laptop screen down, the machine of technology was shrugged underneath the seat like the cold piece of metal it was.

The glass of wine was set on a passing by stewardess's cart. The tray was urged up and the attention centered to the middle tray.

Huckleberry Finn was forgotten, turned somewhere on its spine.

The thin laminated papers were dealt out evenly despite how many cards were still missing in the deck.

Eventually laughter and conversation followed as three adults, three strangers and three humans played with uneven cards, passing the remainder of the flight in a way that was more innately productive than most anything else they would do that day.

Thousands of feet below, Alfred smiled. He let out an accomplished sigh, and set his sight on the altitude before him.

"I can't believe you are actually alluding that my wife or I might have had something to do with this! Those accusations are both audacious and- and-" Jackson stammered, his face taking on an indignant red.

"Inconceivable?" Neal put forth boredly, sending Alfred into snickers.

"Precisely!"

"Be that as it may, we must look down every possible avenue. However unlikely these ideas may seem." The look on Peter's face clearly displayed how likely he thought it was. Jackson stepped down though he simmered unhappily.

"I still don't get why we have to give you our phones," Andrea complained. Both Neal and Peter had some difficulty holding back their incredulity at her. Andrea's biggest issue was being separated with her cellular device. And here they were investigating them for a serious federal offense. They resisted sarcastic eye rolls. Accusing her of theft was one thing, but even mentioning taking her phone was so _clearly _another.

America sweat dropped a little. His citizens and their phones. It was a complex relationship/dependency he understood all too well.

"It's just to ensure you don't message anyone on the outside, to tip them off. If you are indeed involved it is possible that there is an accomplice," Peter explained to her patiently, as he held out his hand in askance. Jackson handed his over promptly, a sleek little iphone.

There were a few minutes of hesitation, before she finally fished a silver blackberry from the folds of her dress a placed it in his palm.

"You too little man," Peter said turning to the youngest member of their party.

"Who are you calling little man?" Thomas mumbled defiantly as he gave a matching iphone to Peter.

"Isn't that just the cutest little brat?" Peter whispered to Neal, his smile overly tight. It was a testament to his ventriloquism skills that no beside Neal heard him or even saw his lips move. Years of federal work had allowed him to hone this particular skill.

"We will start the questioning separately, but we would like it if you remained in this room for the time being," Peter told them, before he turned to Neal. The two adults looked vaguely unhappy but nodded and moved to stand in opposite corners of the room. Jackson was staring studiously at the false painting and Andrea was fastidiously looking anywhere but at her husband.

"Okay, I'll interview Andrea, you take Jackson." The fed outlined his plan hastily, glancing over to the couple who were both oozing petulance.

"Are you sure, I think I'd have better luck with her," Neal said, staring at the elegant figure she cut with her little black dress.

Noting the ex-con's stare, Peter gave him a subtle smack.

"Get your head in the game," Peter scolded as Neal ducked out of the way expertly and idly.

"It is. I know what I'm talking about, and frankly, women like her eat men like you for breakfast."

Peter gave him a dirty look.

"If I remember correctly, when it came down to it, I was the only one who could snare the black widow," The fed reminded him a little smugly as he referenced one of their older cases.

"Oh I'm sorry I don't attract serial killers quite like you do, how can I survive," Neal's tone was absolutely dripping in sarcasm.

"We're getting tangential. Look just take Jackson alright?" Peter said, trying to bring the topic back around.

"I just thought you'd want to be the one to interwiew who is more guilty . . ." Neal slyly tempted the other man, making Peter blink.

"Who Jackson? You really think it's him?"

Neal nodded assuredly. "Yeah, I like him for this."

"No way, if it isn't both of them, it is definitely her. Her issue with passing over her phone is the first tip that something's screwy with her."

"Would you trust your phone with other people?" Neal asked.

"I'm a federal agent not some stranger," Peter excused.

"Even worse,"

"Jackson had no trouble with it," Peter pointed out, as he resisted an eye-roll.

Neal's expression shifted to a smile.

"I bet you twenty its Jackson and not Andrea," Neal challenged with a vulpine smile.

"Betting on a case? It doesn't get much more inappropriate than that," Peter commented, though more thoughtful than disapproving.

"Scared you're wrong?" Neal asked with a challenging smirk.

"Never."

"So who am I interviewing?" Alfred interjected startling the two adults as he reminded them of his presence.

Peter groaned.

"Or will I be doing some tag-teaming? The ol' good-cop bad-cop routine."

They exchanged weary glances, though Alfred plowed on obliviously.

"I wanna be the good cop- wait no the bad one is cooler- but the good cop is so-"

Peter rubbed his face tiredly as he expertly blocked out the teen's voice as he made his decision. What to do with their charge. Peter was half tempted to make him wait outside, but remembering what happened last time with Charlie, he was hesitant. Not to mention Hughes impending insistence that they "keep an eye on that damn kid!" it probably would be wisest to keep him within their sights. So some harmless and menial task then to keep him occupied and out of the way.

The words telling him to just guard the painting were on his lips, but knowing the teens luck he might end up accidently setting the evidence on fire. (Again.) He could see a similar line of thoughts playing on his partner's face. It was then that a black head caught his eye as it hovered on the edges of the room, seemingly unconcerned with what was going on. Catching his partners eye, Peter jerked his head in the direction, raising his eyebrow is askance. Neal shrugged in reply, seeming to say, "seems good, why not." Excellent, this would keep him busy. Also, this way at least if something did go wrong then Neal couldn't blame him like last time.

As he turned to Alfred he was semi-alarmed to find the teen was still talking, or perhaps rambling was a more suitable word.

"-I mean Benson and Stabler can do good-cop bad-cop but that scene in "The Dark Knight" with Batman and the Joker was pretty much the most awesome thing-"

"Alfred, you won't be teaming up with one of us, but we have a job that is equally important for you," Peter told him, and though Alfred's face had initially deflated, it was rapidly re-inflating to the point Peter was worried the teen would pop.

"Yes?!" Alfred implored excitedly.

"Try to talk to Thomas, and see what kind of things the kid knows about his parents. Lord knows the kind of little facts kids pick up."

Alfred's expression fell from excitement, to depression to resignation in less than ten seconds. He let out a sigh.

"Fine," He whined a little. It was clear he knew what they were doing.

He gave them a look that clearly said, 'you owe me.'

Peter smiled at how well that went for once.

"I suppose I'll give Jackson a try, but don't take it easy on her just because she is a woman," Peter said to Neal who nodded in understanding, already a professional and emotionless expression had settled across his face.

Before Neal could move away, Peter caught his arm and stared into his eyes with an unexpectedly playful and challenging expression.

"I bet twenty that it's her. You're on Neal."

Neal returned the expression with his trademark smirk, mostly reserved for Peter.

Alfred watched them as they collected their designated interviewee. He gave a small sigh before turning to find his own target.

Thomas Teague was standing a little away. He was intent of untangling a mess of chords that were his headphones.

"Hey Tommy-boy," Alfred said trying not to let his dismay seep into his voice. Maybe next time he should wear a cape. They would HAVE to take him more seriously if he wore a cape . . . Nobody didn't take Batman serious.

"Oh, it you. My name isn't Tommy, or Tommy-boy, or whatever. It's Thomas," The boy corrected. He managed to make the word 'you' sound like the gum you found on the bottom of your shoe. Seriously though, they can't teach this kind of spoiled-brat style.

America would almost say it came from the genetic, but all American genes kicked ass so it couldn't be that.

"Well if you want to get really technical you name is Thomas Hatfield Lennox Teague, but let's not get too formal."

The kid blanched slightly, before turning vaguely red in embarrassment as Alfred revealed his information.

"You're a creep. What kind of assistant are you? The kind that looks up all this stuff on kids," He said accusatorily.

"To tell you the truth I'm not their assistant, I'm their partner. They're just in denial about what an asset I am to the team. Deep down they know that is they add me to the squadron of justice, or maybe it should be called the go-go-fighter dream team? Anyways, the point is that they know if I become a part of their squad then they won't be able to nab as many bad guys, cause I'll be getting' all of 'em," Alfred really did try not to sound so pouty but the expression worked its way across his face anyways.

The kid started at him deadpannedly.

"Right." The boy let out a breath, before he mumbled under his breath,

"And here I thought that seventeen-year-olds were supposed to be mature."

Alfred caught this and he frowned mildly at his citizen.

"Hey! I am so mature! And I'm nineteen, not seventeen, for your information," He sniffed.

" . . . That really just makes it worse," Tomas replied, shaking his head.

A cape next time, for sure. Jeesh, not even the kids were taking him seriously.

Across the room, Andrea seemed to hear something Jackson said, because she started screaming profanities, her cold mask destroyed. Jackson replied in kind, with double the accusations. Both of them trying to condemn the other. Neal and Peter had their hands full trying to hold them back.

"Kinda weird the stuff that's going on, you know, one of them probably having committed a federal crime and all." Alfred's blunt way of putting things had a tick developing in his young companion. The black-haired boy, finally having unwound his earphones, set them carefully in his ears. Music began pouring out of them, in overly loud waves.

"Yeah, you're right; I don't even want to hear it either. But there it is," He stated nonchalantly.

"-Selfish woman after all I did for you and now you accuse me of-"

"-no proof of what you're saying, you're just trying to save your own skin at our expense, you stupid bast-"

The shouting escalated as survival instincts kicked in. Neither wanted to be the one going to jail. And thus the truth was lost in the shouting and babbling. The facade that neither of them were guilty had faded and now it was just a simple task of finding who was lying.

Thomas watched them. The reflections of his parents danced across the black of his eye. He wasn't even stunned or surprised. Thomas just turned up the music a little louder and pretended he couldn't hear it.

America felt such sadness.

This kid who was so new to the world was already so accustomed to the ugliness and mean qualities humans could have. He was used to the constant war his parents waged on each other, and how two-sided it was in public. Being the tool of which they used to hurt the other with was something else he was used to. It was no wonder he stopped feeling guilty.

It was no wonder he stopped feeling.

"It was no wonder you stopped caring," Alfred murmured.

"What?" Thomas asked, taking out one of his headphones with an irritated look, staring at the blonde teen inquisitively, having entirely missed what he said.

"I have this old friend," Alfred started, and Thomas gave him sigh and moved to put the headphone back in.

Alfred gave him a slight smile instead, and kneeled down to the boys ear. Little wisps of the sound were falling out of the other side on the earphone and Alfred recognized the song. Opening his mouth America spoke straight through the headphone.

"This friend of mine, he lives in Japan. He gave me this statue of ideas."

Thomas heard the voice as though it was coming from the ipod. He stiffened slowly, and turned to Alfred, but was mortified when he saw the teens lips were no longer moving. The voice was still coming through. How had he done this? Thomas wanted to rip the headphones, out, he wanted this weird supernatural even to stop, and he wanted to pretend it had never happened, but he couldn't, it was as though he was held there captive by some invisible, immovable force.

"I thought it was pretty funny when I saw it, I mean it was these monkeys just sitting next to each other," Alfred gave a little laugh, and it echoed hollowly though the speakers.

Slowly, like he was orchestrating a symphony, the teen moved his hands up to his face and closed them around his eyes, ending the blue, depthless gaze, and stopping all light from reaching the iris's.

"**See no Evil."**

Thomas shuddered. There was something so wrong about it, that it made his head hurt and feel nauseous all at the same time. Images accosted his brain.

_America was dressed in Red and Blue, staring away from his brother who had once loved him so much, kneeling in the dirt._

_Amercians were dying on far away, foreign shores; some would never see their mother land again._

_Brothers lay slain in the dirt side by side._

_Stay in our land. Isolate. Don't worry about Europe. Please, stop worrying about Europe._

Thomas saw tears fall from beneath the hand, but when he blinked the blue drops were gone, and the hands changed. The long fingers now clutched his ears.

"**Hear no Evil."**

Sound bites from all over history played in his mind.

"-_colonies only point is to provide money for the mother nation! That is mercantilism at its fine-"_

"_-they're taxing us without due representati-"_

"_-he South will only sign if we change the amendment recalling slavery-"_

"_-he's destroying Europe! Don't you care you stupid gi-"_

"_-hy having recording systems in the oval office is a bad thin-"_

Then, like his hands were weighted, they fell to his mouth.

"**Speak no Evil."**

"_-recognize me! I'm my own country-"_

"_-inferior race, which is why things must be segregated-"_

"_-banning these vulgar words to prevent our children from ever reading this filth-"_

"_-too much of a republican pig to-"_

Guided by unseen gossamer threads, he extended his thin fingers before him, wrists touching, though palms spread. It was as though he were handcuffed by air.

"**Do no Evil."**

_When the Europeans came, America was earth brown, quite like the natives. More and more pale people flowed into his land, and they became a part of him too. His coco complexion grew whiter every day, but he was accepting of his new additions. He still held a balanced tan, which was more reminiscent of a sepia tone. Then the killing started. At first it was communal on both sides, and the battle played across his skin. But then it was manifest destiny. The equilibrium toppled, crashing and spilling red blood everywhere. He had lost part of who he was without even realizing, until he glanced and saw the alabaster color he had become, and felt victorious and self-loathing, excited and hysterical, proud and undone._

"Do **no** Evil."

The silence that followed was overwhelmingly loud. Thomas gave a stuttered breath, and it hitched halfway in the middle. It was then he notices the trail of tears that were falling down his face.

"W-what was that?! What did you mean?!" He asked, staring at Alfred in both amazement and fear.

In lieu of a real answer, Alfred ruffled his hair kindly.

"The cycle will continue, weather we see the evil or not, it is still there. You can try not to hear the Evil around you, but it exists, quite akin to dust. The only way to stop it is to see the evil, reveal it, speak aloud about the evil, and then you will do no evil."

Thomas looked at him, suddenly struck by how more-than old Alfred seemed. Far beyond a seventeen year old or nineteen-year-old or even a hundred year old person.

"Others evils are not your burden to carry and I'm sorry you've been doing it so long," Alfred spoke soothingly, and quietly. They were words Thomas had never heard before. It was just so human. Such a general human kindness and caring, one that Thomas hadn't felt in years and years.

Thomas began openly weeping, and ran towards Alfred, grabbing his middle awkwardly, and he buried his face in his tee, more like the child he was instead of the teen he pretended to be. He wondered if this would be what it was like to have a parent that really cared.

America patted him gently, with a love in his eyes that a country can only have for one of its citizens.

He held the boy and promised him he was never alone.

* * *

><p>"No way, no way. There is literally NO WAY that you could have known it was Jackson and not Andrea," Peter railed as they drove back to the office.<p>

"Then why am I sitting on twenty more dollars than I was before?" Neal replied amusedly.

"It was a fifty fifty chance! You just got lucky!" Peter exclaimed, feeling miffed that his usually excellent instincts had led him awry.

"No, I just knew where to look," Neal said with an enigmatic smile.

"And where was that?" Peter asked sarcastically.

"I'm not going to tell you, you're just going to get upset and disbelieve what I say," Neal pointed out a little childishly.

"When have I ever done that?" Peters question was met with a very deadpanned look from Neal.

"Geez, just tell me okay?"

"Alright, fine, but don't be all upset and grumbly," Neal conceded and gave a soft sigh before starting his reasoning.

"I realized from the moment we stepped in that Jackson and Andrea were on the precipice of the divorce-," He stopped short when he saw Peter's already skeptical expression

"Look, it was the distance between them, even when they stood, they never made any eye-contact, and the fact that the father bought his son an IPhone while his wife has an older phone and a lesser model, that just screams of parents trying to win favor with the child and prove who the better parent is," Neal explained.

"What if she just liked that particular model?" Peter challenged.

"In this society? I don't think so. Look do you want me to continue or not?"

Peter agreed reluctantly to what he was saying and motioned for him to continue.

"Anyways, the only question now was figuring out the reasons for divorce, and more importantly, who was leaving who," Neal gave a smile here.

"Do you remember Andrea's hesitance in passing her phone over?"

Peter nodded and moved to open his mouth but Neal beat him to it.

"While you originally saw that as a sign of her guilt, I saw it as the opposite. Think about it, if you were getting divorced and you were planning on living off of alimony, it would be essential that there would be no reason for any denial of alimony, and proof of adultery would definitely stint that," Neal said revealing his beliefs cleanly.

"So logically she should steal the painting to pad her pockets in case that happens," Peter snorted.

"Not if in this case her husband was caught in the act of adultery first, before there was ever a shadow of a doubt cast on her."

"So wait, she's divorcing him then?"

"Yes, and that's why she was so determined to keep any chance of us finding proof on her phone."

"If she's suing him, then that would mean-"

"Jackson Teague would lose thousands," Neal finished, and he watched all the pieces click into place for his partner.

"That's why Jackson stole the painting and paid for a remake, so he wouldn't have to give the real one to his wife and then he could pawn it at the black market . . . . Brilliant," Peter idly remarked, realizing the genius of the whole plan. He instantly regretted his praise the moment he saw Neal's self-satisfied expression.

"Don't look so smug, because it wasn't you who cracked the case," They glanced back at Alfred who was snoozing in the back seat, a small trail of drool dripping down his face, and a blissful smile spread from ear to ear.

"If he hadn't convinced the kid to talk about what he's seen, then all of this would be nothing more than speculation," Peter spoke, unconsciously a little warmly.

"How do you think he did that?" Neal asked.

Peter just shrugged.

* * *

><p>Since it was almost after work hours, Peter dropped Alfred and Neal off at their house, saying he'd be back later, after he finished filing the report.<p>

Much to Alfred's dismay, Mathieu was still at the Canadian embassy, which meant his wonderful pillow-fort plan was missing a side-kick.

Much to Neal's dismay, Mathieu was still at the Canadian embassy, which meant Alfred's wonderful pillow-fort plan now included him.

Oh joy.

He watched with mild discontentment as Alfred ran frantically around collecting every pillow and blanket in the entire penthouse, despite Neal's admonitions, and began to compose a truly monstrous edifice that stretched the entirety of the loft. The "secret entrance" was the blaring Superman sheets that folded over a cardboard box Alfred had found God-knows-where, and it was situated right in front of the entry door. The blanket-y madness was supported by tables, counters, and Alfred had, in fact, dragged the refrigerator over to where he could use it. Neal thankfully had noticed this little move as he had yet to be inside. Inch by inch, Alfred had eked Neal to the few square feet of his enterence. Suffice to say, Neal was not amused.

Currently the two were staring stubbornly at each other. Neal with his arms crossed standing near the mouth outside of the fort, and Alfred, wrapped in his Batman snuggy, peering out from the "window" which was actually just the fairly large hole in one of the old knits.

"I'm not saying it," Neal swore.

"Then you can't come in I guess," Alfred said noncommitantly.

"It's my loft!"

"My fort," He rebuffed.

"That you used my blankets to build!" Neal exclaimed feeling irritation well up.

"Not all of them," He stated simply.

"It's mostly min- ugh I don't even want to be in your stupid fort. Just move the TV and books out of it!" He gesticulated to the large hump in the corner of the room where Alfred's fort had encroached over the media center and all of his bookshelves. Because they were located in the back of the corner, and the fact Alfred had managed to make it so tall, there was little chance Neal could crawl over there, at least not without breaking something.

"Seriously, move them out."

"They're on my land," Alfred pointed out diplomatically.

"I own this entire loft!"

"Actually it's June's and either way, I've claimed this land for the United States of Alfred," The teen explained calmly.

"I didn't agree to this," Neal reminded him pointedly.

"It was forcefully seized."

There was a tense silence, before Alfred attempted to hold out an olive branch.

"Look, I'm inviting you in here, you could get your stuff, and all you have to do is say the password."

"Hell no."

"Then it seems we are at an impasse."

"It seems so."

Silence once more reigned.

It was broken by a horrible moan and frantic pounding on the door below. They both started. Alfred turned deathly white.

"What was that?" Neal asked aloud, moving to peer out the window, but the entrance was blocked by a larger fir with winding branches.

The wretched sounds persisted, and at the point nearly all the color had left Alfred's face, did he start screaming.

"G-g-ghost!" Alfred panicked.

"Its gonna come in and eat me and then it'll possess my body and make me do horrible and embarrassing things and make me destroy things like Godzilla and destroy twinkies and then the government will have to send a special team to take me out, like Seal 8, but with a bigger helicopter, and then they'll kill me and capture me and then kill me again and I'll be laughing 'cause I'm possessed and then they'll kill me for a third time and then I'll be a science subject and then my head will rotate and I'll puke and crawl on the walls and they'll have to exorcise me and I'll get all ugly and-"

"Alfred shut up! There are no such things as ghosts," Neal explained, a migraine coming on as Neal's brain tried to figure out how many times Alfred had said he'd die in that scenario.

"It's probably just some neighbor kids playing pranks, it'll be fine, the doors locked you don't need to-"

Just as he spoke, the audible sound of the door swinging open echoed upstairs, and the moaning sound increased.

"Hold shit! Omg itsa ghost!" Alfred flew back into hysterical panic mode.

"Alfred, let me in," Neal said, feeling the first threads of panic enter him. Alfred's anxiety was making him anxious.

Suddenly, he had the horrible thought that perhaps it was the Russians, the ones who were trying to find Alfred. Logic told him no, they would never be this sloppy, (or loud, like really really loud,) but who was it then? Neal really had no clue.

Then he heard a stair creak, betraying the fact something heavy was moving up the stairs, the groaning increased gradually, urging the blood-curling, hair-raising sensation slowly rising within him.

He had to call Peter.

Frantically he patted his pockets only to mortifyingly realize he had left his phone on the coffee table in the fort. He frantically tried to push his way into the fort. Unfortunately Alfred had shoved a TV stand flat against the opening, preventing Neal's entry.

"Jesus Alfred! Let me in!"

The ghostly sounds were quick approaching.

"You can't fool me ghost! I won't let you in!"

"It's me, Neal, Alfred, now let me in!" He pounded frantically.

"I don't believe you!"

Driven my manic fear he shouted the secret password.

"BOTH MY BEEF AND DREAMS ARE SUPERSIZED. Now let me in!" The TV table flew away and Neal scrambled in, disregarding that he was dirtying his three hundred dollar suit.

He clawed his way through the narrow cardboard box, and whipped past Alfred, who quickly reattached the "door." Fumbling through the blankets, he made his way to the coffee table in front of the TV. His stomach fell out as he realized his phone wasn't there.

Alfred!

Dashing back to the entrance where Alfred was holding down the barracks/panicking hysterically, he was just about to demand his phone when the door opened.

Forcing Alfred's mouth shut, he sat there quietly, the only sound in the room being the heavy breathing.

Neal's question was what they were waiting for, whoever they were. They didn't seem to be moving any closer, yet he could hear their faint breaths still.

" . . . It is times like these I am glad that Arthur got this land instead of me, mon dieu . . ."

It was a French tone that spoke first, confusing Neal, and then he heard a soft sigh.

"What is he up to now . . ."

It was Mathieu! He moved to extract himself, relief pouring out of him in waves as he opened the "door" to leave.

"Mathieu, thank God it's you, I wasn't quite sure who it was that-" He was cut off short by a swift tackle to the side delivered via Alfred, who somehow had found adequate space in their cramped corners.

"No Neal! I'll save you!"

"Get off of me!" Neal shouted irately.

"I won't let you, the ghost already claimed Mattie, I won't give him another victim!" He proclaimed dramatically.

"Oh geez, look Alfred, it's us, we promise. I mean you can sense its us-"

"How could I let the ghost possess my brother? This would be a great Hollywood movie . . . But, die spawn of Satan!"

"There is no dealing with him when he gets like this, let's leave him to wear himself out" The French man spoke again.

There was another soft sigh.

"Look, Alfred, how could we prove to you it's us? Maybe if you let us inside we could-"

"Nope! You need the secret password!"

Inside the fort of hell, Neal was quickly feeling his agitation rise. If Alfred thought everyone outside was possessed by a ghost, then his stupid hero complex would definitely prevent Neal from leaving the fort, and since the other two couldn't prove it to Alfred . . . It appeared to Neal to be a very long day in close quarters with Alfred, unless something drastic happened. Mentally he prayed for Mathieu not to give up.

Someone was listening, because Mathieu leaned in near the "window," his violet eye appraising his brother carefully.

"So if I knew the password that would prove it?"

"Yeah, but there's no way you could guess wh-"

"Both my beef and dreams are supersized."

There was a vacuous silence.

Then Alfred ripped through the top of the fort, quite literally and accosted his brother.

It was a naturally recurring event, like the slow formation of rocks or the movement of water. For those surrounding Alfred, making a scene was a requirement for everything he did, whether it was on purpose or not. This was an idea that was slowly (and painfully,) being taught to Peter and Neal.

"Holy shit! I'm so glad the ghost didn't get you!" Alfred exclaimed loudly, sweeping his brother up in a large bear hug.

The teen completed a few quick spins making the other teen's legs fly out and a short shout escape his lips before Alfred set him down and excitably started jabbering.

"I forgot I gave you a key, hey when did Francis get here? Does he wanna sleep over with us too? Okay, he can, but we have to make triple bunkbeds, and I'm getting the top, because the Hero is always on top!"

"Right . . ."

During this time, Neal took the chance to observe the strange Frenchman.

He was fairly tall, with sharp features and aqua blue eyes that seemed wrapped in a lusty langor. (Did they look red-rimmed, or was that just him?) To be frank, it creeped Neal out a bit, but as he noticed his wardrobe that was both fashionable, but extraordinarily well put together, his opinion changed. He had shoulder-length blond hair, a few shades paler than Alfred's and he watched the two brothers with a mix of annoyance and amusement.

He seemed far more mature than either of the two brothers. Idly, he wondered if it was another one of Alfred's plentiful friends.

Deciding to put an end to the rambling and half-baked plans, he made a gentle cough to remind the scattered-brained teen of his presence.

Though Alfred was far too excited to notice, the younger brother took mercy on him.

"Neal, this is Francis, and Francis this is-"

"Un radieux~!" He exclaimed, making a show of greeting Neal in a manner than was far more intimate than it should have been for strangers, in fact it was too showy to ever greet anyone with ever. And that was how Neal found himself on the receiving end of Francis kissing his hand and giving a half bow, all through which intense eye-contact was kept.

Neal was kind of off his game, he usually wasn't on this side of the stick, (it usually was him leaving other feel this way, albeit less uncomfortable,) yet this man had flown through here, and knocked him off his feet.

. . . . Why couldn't Alfred have normal friends?

"What was that moaning sound?" Neal asked, pointedly not looking at Francis.

Mathieu opened his mouth but the French man cut him off dramatically.

"Oh mon dieu! I was dying of the worst hangover I've had in centuries, you would not believe the pain I feel radiating in my skull!" He proclaimed dramatically. Neal gave him an odd look, and Mathieu stuttered on the side, looking very panicked.

"You mean years, not century, I-I know how you confuse the two sometimes, English is quite different from French and all," Mathieu shiftily said, fidgeting as he did.

"Ah yes, _English_,"Francis said disdainfully, but he made a shooing gesture showing he didn't care what he said all that much. Neal accepted the answer, though there was something in Mathieu's behavior that set off a red-flag somewhere in his mind. He didn't have time to ponder it, because Alfred had decided to join the conversation.

"Wait, dude, you have a hangover? How did that happen? You're like a heavy-weight champion," Alfred asked.

"Well, last night I was having a drinking with Arthur and-"

"Pffffft! Wait, you got a hangover from drinking with Iggy?!" Alfred collapsed into hysterics.

"If you had let me finish, it was not Arthur to blame for this, "Francis huffed and flipped his hair over his shoulder.

"We were on our second round of shots at Feliks's house, so you can imagine that Arthur was quite piss-drunk."

The twins nodded along, and Neal once more was having dubious thoughts about the character of Alfred's guardian. After thinking for a moment, he figured, it did explain a few things about why Alfred was the way he was.

"He was just at the part where he starts swearing and calling 'liquor' a 'locker' and asking why we weren't friends-" Once more the twins nodded.

Neal decided it explained more than a lot.

"-When Ivan saw us and deigned to join us. Uninvited of course. Ooh! The manners of some people! They have no class these days!"

"Wait you had a drinking contest with Ivan? At Vodka shots?" Alfred started laughing again, and Francis glared at him.

"Frankly you should be glad you made it out of there with your kidney Francis, what were you thinking?" Mathieu scolded gently.

"Like seriously dude. Ivan's the kind of guy who would jump out of an airplane yelling 'vodka!'" The image alone was enough to send Alfred back into hysterics, and Francis wincing at the piercing noise. It was then he noticed Alfred's clothes.

"Mon ami what are you wearing?" he asked shocked, as he stared at the gaudy Batman snuggy.

"You don't know who Batman is?" Alfred asked agog, as if the very thought was sacrilegious.

"I know your silly little superheros, what I don't get is why you are wearing these ridiculous clothes, ugh if they can even be called that! Mon Dieu! It's giving me a migraine just looking at it."

More than a little affronted, Alfred rebuffed.

"If I'm remembering correctly it wasn't me who was wearing bright red pants with a blue mantle when we were trying to sneak around."

"That was years ago! And there was nothing wrong with those!" Francis said irritatedly.

"The Mile isn't just a river in Egypt baby," Alfred shot back. Everyone deadpanned.

"He means the Nile. Denial," Mathieu covered his blunder haphazardly.

"Meh, look the point is my style is awesome!"

"I'm going to have to side with Francis on this one," Neal said, because as much as he didn't like the Frenchman, Alfred's bad taste in clothing overwhelmed all of that.

"No alliances! It isn't fair," Alfred whined.

Suddenly Mathieu started.

"Where is Tony?" He asked worriedly, and Alfred stared at the two.

"If I gave him to Mattie, and he gave him to you, Francis, where did you leave him? You didn't leave him all alone did you?" Alfred asked accusatorily.

"Oh non, non! I would never be so irresponsible! I left him at Arthurs."

There was a gap of seventeen seconds for this information to sink in before Francis' phone went off violently in some French song Neal didn't recognize.

The other three exchanged looks before they silently, and unanimously decided against answering it. It rang and rang before falling quiet. A notification blinked to life on Francis' phone, informing them they had a new message to listen to.

"_You have ONE unheard message."_

"_First message sent today at 5:45 PM"_

"What the bloody hell did you do Frog!? That little prick is running around and- wait-get over here you little blighter!"

"F*cking Limey!" echoed from over the phone along with crashing sounds.

"Damnit! I'll get you back for this! God, why won't the light just shut-up!?"

"Oh the things I'll do to you when I catch you, you bloody ankle biter! _Santo Rita Meata Mater Ringo Jonah Tito Marlin Jack Latoya Janet Michael Dumbledora the Explorer-"_

**BEEP**

"_End of new messages."_

Neal changed his mind.

It explained everything about why Alfred was the way he was.

* * *

><p>Yeah, so we are in fact on chapter 15. Oh yeah, and France is here.<p>

Happy fun time.

Thank you for sticking with me.

Shout out to dragonDraw for being my 300th reviewer!

**RE**view?


	16. A Day with Green Women and Superman

Sorry it's late. I'ma bad human being. I also started ANOTHER story, though this one is on livejournal and it's a Beatles fic. Anyways.

I plan on about five more chapters. Sound good?

I have the best readers in the world! It is thanks to all the lovely reviewers here that this chapter finally came out.

I own nothing.

* * *

><p>Chapter 16<p>

A Day with Green Women and Superman

* * *

><p>"<em>I wish we would all remember that being American is not just about the freedom we have; it is about those who gave it to us." ~Mike Huckabee<em>

* * *

><p>The dining room was dimly lit. Casual chatter filled the room, creating a warm ambiance. It was a formal place that glittered with glamour. The sheer amount of little black dresses truly just added to the beauty of the place, or maybe that was just Neal's opinion.<p>

"Mon dieu! I cannot believe you refused to wear a suit here! You look 'orrible!" The Frenchman complained as he swirled some chardonnay in his glass. Across the table from him sat Alfred, who was wearing a pair of baggy jeans with a tee that read-

"I eat zombies!"

-With a very colorful display of blood and guts splashed across the cloth. In turn, the other three, being Neal, Mathieu, and Francis, were wearing semi-casual suits making Alfred stick out more than usual. Which was saying something.

"I'm sorry that you have to wear a suit to look good, that must be such a burden," Alfred commented with a saccharine smile. Francis' own smile grew tight, and the air crackled with electricity.

Mathieu tried to ease the storm he knew would be coming between the two.

"Now, now, we all know fashion is all an opinion, why just look at the 70's those were-" the pseudo-visible twin attempted to make peace between the two, but to no avail.

"You are quite correct Mathieu! Beauty is in the eye of the beholder, and you dear Alfred, are more than just color blind," Francis gave him a haughty look.

The table splintered a little under his brother's grip, and the Canadian shifted uncomfortably in his seat, glancing back and forth to make sure no one saw that. He was relieved when it appeared safe. He was grateful that Neal found the women here more interesting than the two bickering countries.

The specific girl Neal was watching though, slipped into the ladies room, so he reluctantly turned back to the other men, planning on bumping into her on accident and getting her phone number when she realized her I.D. had 'Mysteriously' gone missing, and after he promised to call 'if' he found it, a little later.

It was almost sad how easy it was.

"How did you find this place Francis? It's very classy," Neal remarked, thoroughly enjoying a little more ritzy setting than he was used to, having to mind Alfred most of the time.

"Ah! Glad to know someone appreciates recherché here. I happen to know the owner. This is one of the few places where you can get real, authentic French cuisine, made by a true French man," Francis replied, smirking a little. Just because HE knew the owner, it didn't mean the owner particularly knew him. One of the perks of being a country was always finding a citizen no matter where you went.

"Oh Francis, I'm afraid you're getting a little confused. Jacques is American, you forget he's been living here for six years now," Alfred said casually.

"Only because his Visa hasn't expired yet! He is still French until he takes a citizenship test," France sniffed.

"Do you really think he'll leave after his visa expires, now that he has a business here?" Alfred challenged with a devious smile.

"He's only here getting experience, besides, his family remains in France, their true home," Francis replied pointedly.

"Well maybe now he's realized how totally awesome America is, he'll move his whole family here."

"He still belongs to-!"

"He's living here so-!"

"Look! Both of you are his friends right now! Can we just leave it at that?" Mathieu asked, raising his voice, though it was still only as loud as an average person speaking.

Both of them scoffed and turned away from the other. Alfred crossed his arms petulantly, whereas Francis took a deep sip of wine.

"Do these two have a history or something?" Neal whispered to Mathieu quietly, as he watched the two pointedly ignore each other. Mathieu gave him a smile.

"Funny choice of wording . . . and not really. They actually are on really good terms nowadays; they just have very different views on a lot of subjects. When you get down to it, they are awfully similar," He observed Neal's surprised expression with a small smirk.

Neal watched the duo, realizing they couldn't be more different if they tried.

Francis, dressed in his fine suit, elegant motions and sharp features; he looked as royal as some forgotten king. There was a thin aura of age and sultry mannerisms, which reminded him of a fine bottle of wine. Then there was Alfred, dressing how he liked, wearing his heart on his sleeve. His honest face was earnest in all he did, like a burning candle, he shone bright. They were two sides of entirely different coins.

Mathieu leaned in and spoke again.

"Really though, they have helped each other out a lot through the years. And while they disagree on every small topic, they have an understanding on the big ones, and that's what's important."

Even as he said this, Neal watched Francis' anger fizz out and fall into a mellow irritation. Heaving a sigh, the Frenchman took a small baguette in his hand. He broke it in half, holding one side to Alfred, obstinately avoiding eye-contact as he did so. Alfred, who was surprisingly stoic, hesitated for a millisecond before reaching out and accepting the peace offering, and munching on it quietly.

It was like watching two stubborn children, Neal observed.

After watching their little interaction, he was inclined to agree with Mathieu's sentiment. Through sheer tenacity, they were very similar.

"So, Monsieur Caffery, what do you enjoy?" Francis asked casually though a sharp look entered his eyes, one that only the twins could see. Alfred's stomach dropped.

Shit.

He had been wondering when France would finally start the topic. The older country had been patiently watching his prey, trying to unravel his character. Frankly, this probably wouldn't end too well for Neal.

"I'm a man of many tastes, fine French wine being one of them," Neal swirled the golden liquid with a smile. He felt vaguely confused about the very pleased look that sprouted on the French man's face as he spoke.

"See, not everyone has as terrible taste as you do in wine, mon ami," Francis spoke with a pleased expression.

"You'd also note that Jacques happens to prefer Californian wines, comrade," The words sounded challenging, but there was something in the last word that made them exchange smiles instead.

"Alfred tells me you have a great fascination with art," Francis lied convincingly, "Any particular interest in any French pieces?" His aqua orbs showed nothing but innocent interest, though the two North American brothers knew otherwise.

"Of course! French artwork has made a huge impact on the art world and I admire many of the artists."

"I do too! Like George Barbier, for example," Francis pointed out, and Mathieu took a moment to hide behind the wine menu.

"His fashion deco was fascinating." Neal agreed earnestly, all while resisting a small smile. He had been able to see many of his pieces up close and personal as he was stealing them.

"Anyone want desert? I'd love some!" Alfred said loudly. Neal gave him a displeasured look, enjoying his conversation with Francis. He didn't need to worry because the other man was quite intent on continuing it.

"Or Robert Antoine Pichon." There was a gleam in the countries eyes that was far too satisfied.

"The brushwork he did was phenomenal." Neal also had pieces of the artist in his collection. He felt himself freeze at Francis' next words.

"Perhaps even Louis Marcoussis,"

Neal remained silent, watching the other man now warily.

"Pierre Bissaud is another wonderful example, or even Leon Pretemps, maybe you've heard of Henri Jourdain," The look had taken a slightly malicious twist.

"I don't know those I'm afraid," Neal stated very quietly, feeling on edge.

"Does the name Gaston Bussiere ring a bell? Unfortunately he seems to have misplaced his Salammbo, I wonder where it could have gone," Francis questioned sarcastically.

Neal felt his skin prickle. There was no doubt that the man knew exactly who Neal was and what he had done with frightening accuracy.

"That's enough Francis," Alfred stated firmly from the side.

The other man would not cease though.

"Perhaps you know of a little French painter named Matisse! He's missing a piece called, Le Bonheur de Vivre, have you seen it around?"

The dangerous tone made Neal shiver unconsciously. He had been up against far scarier people, ten times more intimidating, yet they had nothing on the thin, almost feminine man before him. It was something in his voice and eyes, which made Neal's natural instincts kick in, and warn him to get away.

"Hm? No reply? Have I stolen your breath, monami?"

"Francis!" The American shouted ominously, with power and threat in his voice that startled Neal and many around him. Francis stood and pointed furiously at Neal.

"I will not stop! He took my Matisse! He took my art! He took my culture!" The French man protested in a state of outrage. Alfred rose as well before he leveled him with an icy calm expression.

"The government has already dealt with his situation; any further action you take will be . . . misconstrued." The American teen trailed off, making meaningful eye-contact. Cerulean crashed into crystal, both harsh and unwavering.

Neal felt entirely out of the loop. Misconstrued? What had Alfred meant by that? At the same time, Neal was again struck by the schism within the child he'd been looking after. The child who was currently standing business-like, powerful in a way Neal couldn't quite grasp, was the same child who hours earlier had demanded to make a pillow fort and made him say ridiculous passwords. It wasn't the first time he'd seen this either. It was almost as though Alfred had multiple personalities, the split was so severe and contrasting it was almost difficult to believe.

But the proof was standing right before him.

"One way or another, they'll work their way back into your hands," Alfred pointed out, releasing some of the tension that had formed from the circle.

"Who knows how long that will take though," Francis sniffed.

"Does time really matter?" The wry smile on Alfred's face seemed tired somehow, though it made Francis return the expression and Mathieu lower the menu to give a tentative grin. The two bright blondes sat down finally, letting out sighs. Conversation, which no one noticed had hushed to watch the dramatic preceedings, soon picked up, refilling the room. Alfred lit right up when the server brought them their food, and he dug in with eagerness.

"More bread Alfred?" Francis passed the basket around.

"You bet, I'm a growing boy," Alfred beamed in a silly way.

"I think you're big enough frankly," Francis sweatdropped. Seriously, Alfred didn't even know what to do with the ridiculous amount of space he had.

"Dunno there's always room for expansion. . . maybe upwards?" The American teen made a gesture above his head, mimicking a raise of height while smirking at his twin.

"Oi!" Mathieu exclaimed in a soft shout, though there was a smile clear as day on his face.

The con-artist tasted something bitter into his mouth. Neal was sick and tired at being left out of everything. It was damned frustrating. Alfred was enough of a mystery on his own, but coupled with his odd friends it was borderline ridiculous. How did Francis even know about him, and why did he care so much?

Also, why was Alfred defending him? It wasn't his place. Alfred was acting as though he was representing the American government, arguing and standing ground on Neal's place. This was a nineteen year old. He couldn't have that kind of power. And yet, it seemed it did.

"I don't see why it is any of your business where those paintings are," Neal started, sensing the hush that descended on thier conversation.

"I mean, they're all in private galleries currently, so I don't see why you're so concerned," The brunette carefully cut his poutine.

"Francis works for the government ov-" Alfred started, but he was cut off by the oldest man in the room.

"You really have no clue who I am, do you?" The question was a dangerous one, laced with a supremacy that only came through years. Neal glanced up and was met by a startling sight.

The eyes that looked at him were transparent for a mere moment, and what he saw inside he couldn't understand. There was majesty, power, richness and culture, there was war, violence, fear, creation, victory and death, hopelessness and spirit. There was years and years of struggle all locked within the glass spheres. Neal felt as though he was at the precipice of understanding, when Francis blinked and looked away.

The French man shook his head, his wavy locks swirling as he did. His regal expression deflated and in its place was a pervasive weariness that made Neal question the actual age of the blonde before him.

"I'm simply a man who enjoys the art of his country."

Neal nodded slowly, the moment passing like dust in the wind.

"But on his off days of that full time job, he helps around the government over in France," Mathieu nudged his pseudo-father with an encouraging smile. Francis ruffled his hair, bringing back memories of a time long since passed when they had not been equals, but the older brother and younger.

" . . . And he uses every other day to try and convince himself France is as cool as America is." Alfred struck a mini-hero pose.

"Now a delusion that grand would take more time than I could possibly spare!" Francis laughed richly.

Neal felt the grip of suspicion take hold as he watched the warm scene before him. Alfred and his friends all held high positions in their relative governments. The entire group was friends, and talked about business matters and personal ones with a flippancy that Neal could not understand. Each of them seemed far too young to hold a position that high. Especially if he assumed that Alfred's situation applied to everyone and that they were all assistants to their leaders. The more he learned about the situation the less likely it seemed to be coincidence. There was something going on that was above him. And he would find out what.

* * *

><p>"Alfred, you have such charming friends!" Elle spoke with a smile. They had reconvened after an early dinner at the Burke's house. Elle had been charmed by both Francis and Mathieu, which made Alfred pout a little. She should like him the most! He was her country . . .<p>

"I promise, none of them are half as charming as moi," Francis assured her.

"Thank goodness for that," Peter mumbled, not enjoying the attention the French man lavished on his wife. He was already regretting agreeing to let Alfred's latest addition over to his house. He should have known better that all of his friends were as ridiculous as Alfred was, excluding Mathieu, who Peter strongly approved of. Alfred could learn a thing or two from his more reserved twin.

"Are you sure you can't stay later?" Elle pleaded, the warmth in her eyes made Francis feel very appreciated. Ah, Alfred had a good one.

"I hate to disappoint a pretty woman such as yourself, but unfortunately, business calls me in the capital. I only came by to say hello to these two. Perhaps I will swing by afterwards on my way out though."

"That would be lovely," Elle smiled genuinely and Francis sighed dramatically.

"A crime must have been committed, because no man deserves to have a heart such as yours, he must have stolen it," Francis spoke pointedly at Peter. The fed gladly countered with a glare. Elle giggled, ignoring the silliness of the men around her.

"Francis, it's a quarter to eight," Mathieu reminded his ex-guardian.

"Alas, I must be off. I bid you adieu!" The European country kissed the ladies hand with delicacy, making sultry eye-contact as he did. He moved straight past Peter , who scoffed at the rudeness, and looked at Neal appraisingly.

"And you, I suppose I do the same," Francis spoke thoughtfully before he shocked Neal as he grabbed his chin and angled it different ways. Neal tried to pull out but the thin man's grip was surprisingly strong.

"I forgive you momentarily, if only because you possess some of the same beauty as the paintings you steal. Hm, and also a little French heritage. Maelys is in your eyes." Doing a French kiss on either side of his face, he spoke softly to the frozen Neal. The younger man felt his eyes widen. How had Francis known about his grandmother?!

"I will get my paintings back one day. L'extrémité will come soon enough."

Before Neal had time to process what just happened, the frivolous and smiling French man had replaced the eerie one from moments ago.

"Let's leave quickly before this horrible heat damages my hair!"

"Me and Mattie will meet you at the loft after we see him off, m'kay?"

Alfred didn't wait for a reply, because he had skipped out the door with his fellow countries.

"The manners of that guy!" Peter griped, cursing about the rudeness of the man. His wife smiled indulgently and kissed him gently, silently thanking him for putting up with things he didn't like. Neal stood across from them deep in thought.

Some reconnaissance was necessary.

The three countries left the building and stepped quickly into the nondescript black car that was waiting for them.

"Airport, please Marceau," France requested in French to his bodyguard. The man had brunette hair and an overly genuine smile below his dark brown eyes.

"Right away sir!"

"Ah, Marceau! The manners of some American's are truly atrocious!"

"Sorry to hear that sir, at least the view is nice," he stated in a placating manner.

"**Ah, how long as he been with you**?" Canada asked in Hungarian, seeing France groan a little at his bodyguard's overly optimistic response.

"**Two months. I'm still training him,**" France informed him.

"Hey! Remember the rule! Whatever country we're in we agreed to speak that language, and since you're in the big apple, you have to speak American or Broolynese! Take your pick!" America declared, and did not flinch nor falter at the very deadpanned expression France gave him.

"I may have to alter my previous statement to include all Americans," France commented, though he said it in English.

"At least my women shave," The blue-eyed teen sniffed.

"That's a myth and you know it!" France replied violently.

"LA-LA-LA-LA!" America plugged his ears childishly.

France knew it was futile to correct such a wide misconception. That would take a few decades, but damn, he would do it one day!

"You are totally insufferable!

"Can you both settle down a little?" Canada asked, and the two simmered quietly for a few moments and stared out opposite windows.

Glancing over the city, France watched as the scenery blurred into blue as they met the coast. The European country felt his breath catch as he saw the green lady watching over the city. Memories of a time long forgotten filtered through. Memories of a boy too bright and too eager, his limbs were longer than he knew what to do with, but he would put them to work, he would create his own nation. Time really flew by. How many decades had it been? France glanced at the teen who had grown into his body. There was confidence and power, he had become more hardened, and yet, there was still that look in his eyes that was too bright and too eager. France smiled. He truly was America the Beautiful.

France liked to think he'd had something to do with that, if only to give him a symbol, something to strive to.

Lady Liberty looked magnanimously at the world before her, growing from a mere sign of friendship to something that stood for something as ungraspable as air, and yet ever chased.

Perhaps through chasing after it, that was enough. France supposed.

His eyes widened as he felt something on his skin.

Looking down he saw that America had edged his hand over to France's, though he was still resolutely looking out the window. France clucked his tongue at the familiar stubbornness, but there was nothing but warmth within him as he accepted the gesture and laced their fingers together.

The statue tied them together physically, but there were more things unseen that were inexplicable.

All France knew was that it was a wonderful relationship that was only growing better as time went on.

Canada beamed in approval. He loved his family.

Both blondes were smiling out the window, their friendship visible to everyone. Holding hands just made it glimmer faintly in the evening sun.

* * *

><p>"I can't believe you dragged me into this."<p>

"You said you'd help, besides, don't try and pretend you aren't as curious as I am."

"There's a difference from being curious and breaking into a teenager's room!"

"We're not breaking; the door doesn't have a lock on it."

"We're entering without permission, which counts as breaking."

"It's my loft; also, he never said we shouldn't come in,"

"It's June's technically, and people don't have to ask! It's just a common courtesy!"

Neal rolled his eyes at his partner. He already knew how this conversation would end. Peter would succumb to his curiosity and aid Neal in searching the teen's room. The two were standing right outside of the door when Peter had changed his mind suddenly and had a mini-crisis of the conscience. Alfred and Mattie still weren't back from the airport yet, so Neal seized the chance to do a little snooping.

Neal had politely declined the request and decided to use the extra time he had to dig up some dirt on Alfred. He wanted to have a co-pilot with him, and he had placed Peter where Mozzie usually sat, feeling a deep stab of loneliness at the empty chair.

He pushed those feelings aside and instead decided to focus on the task at hand. After a few minutes, Peter had weighed the matter in his head and decided it wouldn't be too horrible to take a peek in the younger man's room. If there was something Alfred wanted to hide from them, it was probably something that was better off confiscated.

Finally receiving a nod from Peter, Neal turned the knob and pushed on the wood.

It was a paper wasteland.

"How can he live like this!?" Peter exclaimed. The white sheets were up to his ankles and the duo had to wade through them like a bog.

Neal bent over and picked up a sheet.

"-the premeditated statement of the past clause indicates some exist as multiple trusts with an incorporated distribution committee; some exist as a single corporation with no trusts, and some operate as a combination of trusts with a corporation. The tax regulations recognize this diversity and permit a community foundation to operate in the form of a trust, not-for-profit corporation, unincorporated association, or a combination thereof. An important issue concerning the legal structure is whether all of the trusts and funds will be considered as component parts of a single chari-"

"He really wasn't lying about working in the White House. This paperwork is worse than yours!" Neal had a headache from reading even one paragraph, and he wondered how the incessantly energetic Alfred managed to do it.

"Geez, I feel pretty bad for the kid. This is a lot of work for one teen," Peter commented.

Neal agreed silently. He picked up and read a few more papers before he decided there wasn't any information he could gleam from papers discussing taxes on big businesses and charity's.

Looking around, he noticed the bookshelf that was quite full. Alfred clearly was continuing his promise to read an American book to make up for every nonamerican chapter he read. Neal couldn't stop the fond smile that spread over his lips and he pulled a thin comic towards him, paging through it. The seemingly innocent book was more than it seemed. Peter, who noticed the odd expression on his partner's face, leaned over to examine what was in the other man's hands.

"Ah, Superman, I used to spend weeks holed up in my tree house as a kid reading comics. It's the first part too, those are hard to find," Peter remarked, a note of nostalgia sneaking into his tone as he remembered his childhood. It was amazing that Alfred had the first release of a comic though. Those were rare.

"I'll bet you did." Neal didn't even bat an eyelash and Peter frowned.

"You never read comic books? Then you can't even appreciate what it's like having the first editi-"

"It is true I didn't, but I can appreciate a hand drawn copy when I see one."

"An original, hand-drawn copy of Superman?" Peter asked in a shocked manner.

Neal nodded mutely, once more caught off guard by Alfred.

"It must be worth thousands," the fed commented, watching as his partner leafed delicately through the thin colored pages. Looking closer he could see that the ink and coloring style was very different than what he saw in the re-productions, the ink splatters were messy but unquestionably authentic and fascinating.

"It's amazing. A copy like this could go for millions upon millions Peter, not even I can place a price on how much anyone would be willing to pay for this."

"Look there's something written in the cover." Peter pointed and Neal turned to the front page and there lay the following.

"To Alfred, our biggest inspiration, I hope you like out little dedication to you. Thank you so much,

Sincerely, Jerry and Joe

You are always our hero."

There was a silence that followed.

"Was Alfred's grandfather named 'Alfred' too?" Peter wondered aloud. Neal was still reeling from the very personal message scrawled on the page.

"Did you ever hear anything about Superman being dedicated to anyone?" Neal asked, double checking his partner's knowledge, figuring the older man might know something about this that Neal didn't.

"No, I don't think I ever did," Peter said, shaking his head slowly.

"The paper, the ink . . . everything is authentic. Why would something like this be kept a secret?"

"It must have been a personal matter between Alfred's grandpa and the creators," Peter shrugged his shoulders.

"Maybe, but that just doesn't fit. The point of a dedication is to let everyone know who inspired you or whatever. It doesn't work if you keep it a secret!"

"What are you getting at?" Peter asked after the younger man, sitting on the bed, hands clasped together seriously.

"I don't know Peter, I really don't," Neal groaned and ran his fingers through his hair before he collapsed on the bed with Peter. He felt so confused by the events surrounding him. It was frustrating and frightening at times, and he just wanted to understand things better. It seemed like the more he dug, the less he understood.

He knew who would be able to piece everything together. The person who would be able to see through all the nonsense and draw such an impossible conclusion that it seemed more liable that he made it up instead of inducing it. But that was just the magic to what Mozzie did.

Loneliness hurt.

Peter watched his friend struggle internally, and he felt sympathy for the man. It was always tough watching Neal wrestle with his problems. He had really come to care a lot about the younger man. Their relationship was on the very odd ground between parent, rivals and partners. None of the titles seemed to accurately describe what was going on. Peter rubbed his back soothingly. In any other situation, the action would have seemed awkward, but in this moment it offered a kind of comfort Neal needed to help soothe the ache he felt.

Peter wasn't really paying attention to anything he was looking at, but his eye was drawn to a piece of blue that shone almost painfully brightly. He leaned over to the little bed-stand next to the bed. The Great Gatsby lay on the wood, and a little edge of cerulean peeked out and Peter grabbed it, opening the thin pages.

"Neal look at this," He nudged the other man softly. The ex-con raised his head from where it found residence in his hands.

An overwhelming shock of cerulean blue jolted Neal the moment his eyes fell across the picture. A long line of some forty-odd people stood, hand in hand laughing together. Squinting, he saw Alfred near the middle, raising Mathieu and someone else's arms up with euphoria for the moment. On the blonde teen's face there was a large bandaid over his cheek and more still were running up his arms. Despite that, he still looked happy to be there. Close to then he saw Francis as well, smile clear on his face. The contrast of their pristine white shirts against the cobalt background was intense. For whatever reason, though the picture was a relatively simple, there was an energy captured, and contained by the film. Neal felt as though he was seeing more than just forty friends, he felt like he was seeing something uncatchable and unnamable as the wind. It was pure life, collections of moments in history, and for whatever reason, Neal felt he was observing pieces of things he could neither understand nor even fathom.

It was a strong sensation and he had to look away to the top of the picture.

Someone (Alfred if he had to hazard a guess) wrote in clean black sharpie "It's a beautiful world!" in the sky over their heads. Flipping it over, he discovered few lines of writing, though it was in neat Japanese.

If he thought the words would illuminate some truth, he was more bewildered than before he'd read them.

"What's it say?" Peter asked, peering over his friend's shoulder at the text. Neal opened his mouth numbly to relay the words.

_"Dear America_

_Thank you very much for coming to our last world conference; I feel we have started forward on many new topics, ones which will aid our future in the new millennia._

_Your participation was also extremely appreciated in light of the recent events happening on your shores. Please know that I will help aid the recovery however I can. Speaking of, I have some steel in reserve that if you order I will ship to your shores. The recovery process must be very time consuming, so to repeat, we are all very grateful you came to the meeting._

_Once again, Italy somehow won the drawing to pick our theme. The song is still "Draw a circle that's the earth." He is very proud of that tune he came up with when he was only a child, but it does tend to get a little old after the first few hundred times. Though I mean no offence when I speak that. Because having the same title for every meeting would lead to mass confusion, the unofficial title is "It's a Beautiful World." Though do not tell Italy of this._

_On a happier note, I am pleased to announce that we have finished a new console called "The Gamecube." I will send a tester over to your house so you can see what you think. I have a few thousand units in stock so I am well prepared to do business._

_I wish you luck in your recovery, and I look forward to working with you in the new millennia._

_Though as a resolution I ask that you do not refer to me as "Homie" or the like. It is not proper!_

_Your acquaintance, Japan._"

The silence that reigned was edged with a confused air. There were so many bizarre things about the lines of text that neither of them really knew where to start.

"What is with them using all those country names? Do you think they are codenames or nicknames or something?" Peter asked, quickly drawing lines between the odd choice of names and Alfred's ethnically eclectic group of friends.

"That would make sense. Which means that 'Japan' is probably Kiku," Neal flipped the paper over and quickly spotted the congregation of Asiatic people. For some inexplicable reason, he just felt that the boy with the very neatly cut straight-hairstyle was the man from Japan. He just seemed Japanese. There was no other way to describe it really. It slightly confused Neal because the other dark-haired individuals near him looked very similar, in fact they could be a family. Yey there was something essentially different about them that defined them very clearly. Something Neal couldn't quite put his finger on.

"Well, then that would make 'Italy' the other one from that day," the government man furrowed his brow as he tried to remember.

"Feliciano," Neal supplied.

"That's the one."

"It could also be his brother, remember the one that called?"

It took a minute for Peter to recall that particular day, but the annoying ringtone eventually came to mind. Turning the photo over, they took a cursory glance. There were two, nearly identical Italian men. It was very clear to see that their temperament was entirely different, but they looked as twinly as Alfred and Matthew did.

Neal suddenly began to look very intensely at the paper, uncomprehending what was before him.

"What is it?" Peter demanded quickly.

"Look at the corner." The statement was fairly empty, and Peter easily stole the picture from the other man's grasp. Neal seemed suddenly vacant and it was creeping Peter out.

The married man's eyes darted to the corner where he saw small, uniform lines.

"October 5, 2001."

"I don't-"

Suddenly the year registered and Peter was about as stunned as Neal was. It took him a few moments to recover his wits.

"This must be his father or something, there's no way-"

"He's too young in the picture to have a kid," Neal pointed out, feeling the same frustration from before trickle in.

"Maybe it's a cousin or something," Peter continued to try and make sense of what he saw.

"An identical cousin? Wow, maybe we should add Mathieu to our little charade and explain him as Alfred's identical cousin's twin!" the con man snapped.

"This doesn't make sense. Someone must have messed with the camera's date. There's no way that's Alfred. This picture was taken more than a decade ago!"

"No one messed with the date. Think about the message. 'Japan' talks about gamecubes like they're a hot commodity, those have been out for years now. It's accurate."

"Then what's your explanation?" Peter asked, now feeling the frustration Neal had been feeling for months now.

"My explanation is that there's something going on here. Something way above our heads."

The hard look in Neal's eyes did not escape Peter.

* * *

><p>Gotta be honest, the part with France is one of my favorites.<p>

Anywho, the end is upon us! Anyone else excited?

The picture described is called, "**It's a Beautiful World." **Google it with the word 'Hetalia" and you should see what was described. I don't own that either.

Let me know that you read by REviewing!

**RE**view?


	17. A Day for Flash and Jennifer Love Hewitt

**Hi Fingersfallingupwards here!**

***Hiss* Who the fuck is this person?**

***Whisper* I've got no clue.**

***Hiss* Because they're never here.**

**Sorry! Right well, here's the next chapter. By the way, there is a part here that references the Michael and Charlie arc quite heavily. (I think it was like chapter 5 and 6? ((Lol, my own story?)**

_**Discalimer:**_ I don't own Hetalia, White Collar, The Flash theme song, Star Wars, the Flash, Ghost Whisperer nor do I own Jennifer Love Hewitt.

**Thank you for reviewing!**

* * *

><p><em>"America is a country that doesn't know where it is going but is determined to set a speed record getting there." <em>

_~Laurence J. Peter_

* * *

><p>The car ride was quiet and lazy as the sun set behind the arching skyscrapers. Glimmers of the golden rays peeked out, reflecting in ostensible flashes across the glass and metal landscape. One last bright burst before nighttime swept the light away like golden dust.<p>

All-in-all, the day in New York was laying down for sleep as the night creatures were just now stirring.

The relaxed air seeped into the tinted-car and the inhabitants inside, in fact, the three countries found themselves nearly dozing. All was peaceful.

"I have always liked New York," France spoke softly. The city was ambitious and vibrant, always pulling and tugging on the rest of the world. "It's some of your better work."

America snorted derisively as if to say he thought all of his work was brilliant. That being said, the big apple did possess a special place in things for some reason . . . Perhaps because of his identity and the mixed cultures, religions and people that created it. Ellis Island had played such an essential part in what he grew to be. The quest for the American dream . . . People still flocked to the city searching for it. Looking for Life, Liberty: the pursuit of—

"Stop the car!" America shouted suddenly.

Marceau slammed on the brakes, causing much swearing and honking from the other cars. The French man paid no mind as he quickly whipped out a handgun. "Get down!"

In response, America swung the car door open.

"Get back in the car sir!" The bodyguard urged fervently.

"Nah, I think I'll walk back," He said casually, letting them know that there had never been any danger. " 'America's kids got talent' is gonna be on the TV in a while and I dun wanna miss it." The other three resisted facepalming.

"Really America, that was childish of you. Simply ask to be let out next time," France said with an exasperated sigh. In reply, he received a stuck-out tongue, which in turn made him scoff.

"America! You shouldn't go out like this," Canada protested, brow furrowing in deep concern. "You're supposed to be under watch."

"Don't worry; I'll meet you back at the house quicker than The Flash." America grinned.

Canada wanted to argue, he really did, but knowing Alfred for as long as he did taught him the inner workings of the other blonde's mind. So instead, he sighed. "Please take care . . . Neal and Peter will be very worried, you know."

"Stop worrying bro! I'll get back before you do, AND I'll get you some candy to on the way." Before he left, he gave them a wide smile, "You know, if you sing the theme song for The Flash, it'll make me go faster." Without another word he started speeding down the street full-speed while loudly singing the theme song. "_Flash- DUN . . . A—OH, protector of the universe!"_

"A—Alfred!" Canada called after his disappearing twin, his arm half outstretched.

"Leave him be_, mon petite chou_," France said uncaringly.

"But he really shouldn't be alone like this," The North American country bit his lip with worry.

"You know as well as I that he isn't in any real danger," the older man said flippantly, "Besides, he can look after himself. He isn't a colony anymore."

"Ah, you're right," Mathieu agreed finally, sitting in the car.

"Of course I'm right, now let's hurry before my flight leaves! As much as I like New York, sharing it with America here detracts from the experience," France sniffed. "There is no doubt in my mind, it has to do with his wine and terrible manners. And don't get me started on the clothes! I know he looks like a teenager, but where is his pride in his country? At least you turned out well," The European country spoke pityingly for Alfred, "No doubt England's poor habits rubbed off on him. I'm afraid he's too late to save!" France cried, tearing at a pink hanky with his teeth.

Canada gave a small smile and shut the door. His former caretaker always said America was a hopeless case every time he spent time with his twin. And every time, the next they met, France would be attempting once more to culture Alfred. After seeing decades of this behavior, all Mathieu could feel was a warm fondness at the comforting habit of it. The feeling was tainted somewhat by the faint threads of worry he felt.

"_If he isn't there when I get back though, I'll call Alex."_ Mathieu thought decisively. Though with how the traffic was looking, Alfred's chances of getting back before them were looking fairly high . . .

* * *

><p>America slowed his pace after a couple blocks, winding down to a jaunty walk. His hands were stuffed in his pockets, and the theme still played on his lips in the form of a light cheerful whistle.<p>

He looked towards the sky and took a deep breath. For the first time in what seemed like, _ever_, he was alone in his own city. Finally he was free to stretch out his being into the life thriving about him. While he would have liked nothing more than to simply exist in this place for a few hours, just observing his own citizens closely, he was working in a time frame. There was still about an hour left of the golden sunlight, so Alfred would have to make the most of it. Not only that, but he needed to make it back to Neal's loft before Mathieu did.

A grin spread over his lips. He could feel the flow of the traffic, and he knew he had plenty of time in that regard. Though he needed to remember to pay Canada back for his taxi fare, Marceau would be leaving with France, along with a ride. For now though, there was work to be done.

Picking up his pace into a moderately quick swagger, America continued to pick his way through the streets. While he was walking though, it wouldn't hurt to mingle just a bit.

—_Janice Volmer's green heels that had been a Christmas present two years ago from her great aunt Cathy Bench, stumbled inelegantly over the Steve Hart's, guitar case. The twenty-three-year-old musician had picked up the instrument to avoid piano lessons as a child, and stuck with it ever since. One day he hoped to make it big in a rock group, but today was about making rent. A quick hand saved Janice's fall, delivered by Harold Kings, and ex-lawyer with a drinking problem, but a strict code or moral. Candice Marx stepped past them without a glance, her eyes glued to her ipone. Her boyfriend was trying to convince her that they would make the long distance-relationship work, but she had already broken down and steeled her resolve. She couldn't handle it anymore. The stress of worrying about whether he was cheating or not was ruining her mind. She just wasn't cut out for this kind of relationship. Behind her, Tony and Ward DeLong stepped carefully, muttering to each other all the way. "Just wait for—"_

America's eyes snapped open, and he saw the real physical situation playing out around him. Checking his position, he slowed his pace a bit, so he would be astride with Candice.

"I think you're doing the right thing," Alfred spoke to her casually. The girl jumped visually and whipped to him.

"Huh?"

"You know what you can and can't do, and it's a good thing you're realizing this now instead of later," The country spoke with a shrug.

"Wh—what are you talking about?!"

"Trent Richards," The teen spoke plainly as though he thought it was obvious.

"How do you know who that is?" Her mind was racing. It set off alarms in her head and warned her not to come close to the stranger. But within her spirit, an immense sense of calm sat there, and tempered her thoughts down to a gentle sense of curiosity. The strangeness of the sensation left her in a daze.

"He's struggling with it too, ya know? But he's all worried that he's gonna lose your friendship if you break up," Alfred scratched his head.

"That's ridiculous! We've always been friends first!" She blurted.

"Then why don't you tell him that? See what he does."

Her head nodded slowly.

"Thank you," Candice said simply. She didn't really know why she felt such a need to tell him she was grateful, but she did, and she was. She only hoped he could feel it.

"Skedaddle, it's getting dark already." He gave her a light grin and a wink. For whatever reason, Candice got the feeling that perhaps he did understand. She gave him another nod and a smile before she hurried down the street to skype Trent. For whatever reason, she knew that their friendship would survive this. It was probably that bright smile. She could still feel the warmth of it, like the morning sun on her face.

America watched her go with a spring in her step. When he noticed sharp movement behind him aimed in Candice's direction, he started, making his Star Wars wallet fall out of his pocket. The bills and cards lay scattered over the sidewalk, and he was overjoyed by how many people helped him pick his things up, (and how many complimented him on his choice of wallet décor.) Many eyes were on him now. The interest that had once been on Candice had been diverted. America smiled ignorantly and took a turn down an alley.

When he was about halfway down, he heard the distinctive cocking of a handgun.

"Here's how this is gonna work," A voice sneered from the entrance. Turning his head slightly, America could make out two shadows, blocking the light from the entrance of the alley way. Tony and Ward DeLong. They'd been thieves since they were fifteen and twelve respectively. Now in their thirties, they did all they knew how to do. "You're gonna put your wallet on the ground real quietlike, and stand against a wall. You'd better not scream if you know what's good for you or else we're going to—"

"Ohmigod please don't kill me! I don't want to be a ghost!" The two muggers stared blankly at the blubbering hysterical teen. "Ghosts are so awful, they haunt things and places and it's just horrible! All the charms I bought don't seem to work and I've seen 'Ghost Whisperer' enough to know that even Jennifer Love Hewitt can't make _everything_ better. And she's like Jennifer Love Hewitt! If she can't make ghosts better than who can? The ghostbusters made me take their number off of my phone 'cause I kept calling them, but that isn't my fault! Ghosts follow me around everywhere and no one believes me, but it's true, cause like I'll feel these chills and the voices and, and, and, what the hell are movies talking about then, you know?! Ghosts happen all the time in movies and movies are real! I'm so scared they're gonna get me! Have you seen that new movie about the possession of that little girl?! That'll be the kind of creepy nasty ghost I'll be, and I don't want to be a creepy nasty ghost that possesses little girls and sings Victorian nursery rhymes! American nursery rhymes are better anywa—"

"Shut the fuck up or I'll shoot ya right in your fucking head!" Ward DeLong shouted irritably. "You're really startin' to get on my nerves! Who the fuck watches Ghost Whisperer anymore anyways?"

The aghast look on the teen's face informed them that clearly he still watched that show.

"I'm tired of this!" Tony shouted, his eyes were flickering to the entrance as though he expected a cop to appear out of thin air. "Put the wallet on the ground and get the fuck on the wall!"

"Okay! Okay! Just don't make me a ghost!" The blonde quickly dropped his Star Wars wallet to the ground and practically slammed himself into the wall.

The two brothers exchanged looks before they finally descended onto the wallet like vultures, seeking the prizes they knew were inside.

"Shit this kid's loaded!" Greedy and happy eyes lit up. The creaking of metal and the sudden shadow that fell over their hands made the two turn around. Their eyes flew up and almost popped right out of their skulls when they found America holding an industrial-sized dumpster over their heads.

A loud and shocked scream ripped through the two thugs' throats as they stared death in the face. Like an avenging angel, the blonde teen stood above them, outlined by the golden light of the fading sun. The inhuman power and presence that manifested around him stole the breath away from the other men. In one hand he held the dumpster, and by extension, the two brothers' fates. The other he slowly extended towards Tony.

"Can I have my wallet back?"

The muggers choked on his spit at the dumb question. The blonde could have anything he wanted as far as the two were concerned. Tony's hand trembled and he held the wallet up like an offering. "S—s—sure."

"Thanks!" The teen smiled brightly and absently placed the dumpster to the side once more as he began to check through the many pockets to make sure everything was in its proper place.

The other two men still sat hunched together, visibly shaking by the superhuman stranger. Their minds shouted to move, to run, to escape, to_ get away!_ But their legs were frozen, immobilized by the impossible event they had just witnessed.

"You know, stealing is definitely a crime," America spoke calmly as he counted his bills. "So is possession of a firearm without a permit, especially a stolen firearm," He gave Ward a level look. "Pointing said firearm at someone with malicious intent comes up as attempted manslaughter in the court system."

The DeLong's shivered at his causal attitude.

"None of these are all that good for you two," America gave a tiny smile when everything was present and accounted for in his Star Wars wallet. "I know for a fact you're both on probation." Alfred then pulled out his iphone and rapidly began to tap out a text message.

The hair prickled on the brothers' necks. "Y—you . . . what _are_ you?"

Alfred turned away from his Iphone long enough to send them a light glare.

"I'm the hero. Duh."

And with that said, he continued texting.

"Oh."

The teen and walked quickly to the edge of the alleyway as he shoved his iphone into his pocket.

"Hey, Kyle Languet, can you help me for a sec?!" A bald man with a leather jacket in the crowd jumped ten feet in the air with shock. Quickly he darted to where he heard someone say his name.

"Who are—"

"I know you're still like undercover and stuff, but do you think you could walk these guys to the police station? I got somewhere I need to be," Alfred asked with a smile.

If possible Kyle's —the now revealed under-cover cop— eyes widened. "How did you know that kid?"

Alfred bypassed the question. "I just sent a copy of the incident to your phone and the district attorney's. Can you take them there pretty, pretty please? Big Rio is in Manhattan right now anyways with most of the guys, so you're cover won't get blown or whatever. No one'll notice anything if you take the west entrance to the central police station. C'mon, pleeeaaassseeee?!"

The officer's hand went to his phone and a sharp exhale confirmed to the two DeLong's that _that kid_ wasn't lying in the slightest. The officer was stunned by the technical delivery and the level of details included. It was like reading a seasoned police-report. The kid had even included _bios_ for god's sake.

Firth things first though. "How did you know my phone number?" His voice was serious and threatening, driven by immense fear.

Alfred blinked at him, as though that was a stupid question to ask. "Of course I know your phone number. Now are you going to help me or not?"

The cop ran a hand over his bald head before nodding slightly. "Alright, but you're coming with us kid— Kid?!"

It was too late, because Alfred was already booking it to the other end of the alley with ridiculous speed. "Hey, don't break the law guys!" He shouted over his shoulder before vanishing into the streets. The trailing sound of singing faded as he grew farther and farther away.

"_Flash- DUN . . . A—OH, protector of the universe!"_

"What—?"

The two brothers gave the cop a sympathetic look. Frankly put, they more than understood.

Ward cleared his throat, gathering the bemused cop's attention.

"Er, oh yeah. You have the right to remain silent—"

The two brothers listened to the familiar words mostly unbothered. After a day like this, the cells in the station didn't seem too horrible.

* * *

><p>The halls of the behavioral health center were nearly empty. Alfred flitted in with a smile that made him seem like everyone's brother, cousin and son at the same time. No one stopped him as he made his way closer to the living quarters. Their visiting hours were in the early morning and around dinner time. The blonde had made it in record time. His appearance didn't draw too much attention, each person was fairly wrapped up in their own thoughts, and visitors— save one person. Her eyes widened visibly. Alfred waved his hand energetically.<p>

She watched him as he spoke to one of the aids. With a sweet smile and a convincing tearful breakdown, she found herself being ushered into one of the fishbowls for privacy by an empathetic nurse.

"Heya!" He greeted her as he rocked back on the heels of his converse.

"Wh—why are you here?" She demanded, making the teen scrunch his nose.

"To visit you." The '_obviously, duh,'_ went unsaid but was fully implied.

"After what I . . . Why?" The woman settled on finally.

"I wanted to see how you were doing." He scratched his cheek. "I know some people think these places are pretty bad, so I decided to check up on ya. Let's have a seat, yeah?"

She stiffly followed his behavior and took a seat. He continued.

"I don't believe none of that crap though. They have art time and pet therapy and life-skills classes and—"

Her blank expression and self-imposed silence ended Alfred's mundane chatter.

"Why are you here?" She asked harshly again.

"Mmm, well, in all honesty, I came here for myself."

She watched him carefully.

"You see, I just can't get a good night's sleep anymore, and it's really beginning to mess with my schedule." He let out a mournful sigh. "I have this niggling feeling in the back of my head. I can't shake the feeling that you need to talk to me."

The stunned look on her face brought a small smile to his face.

"So would you please talk to me so I can sleep?"

Her body was trembling with repressed feeling. "Even after what I did to you, you came here so that I could talk to you?! I drugged you and tried to burn you and everyone else to the ground!" she screeched. "Why would you still care? Why?! Why! Why didn't you just let me burn?!" The last sentence revealed the heart of the matter, and she trembled with fury.

"Because I love you, Charlie Lewis," He said simply with a grin.

The words died in her throat. Because in her heart, she knew he did. Like a parent to a child, he still cared so much, despite all the wrongs she'd done. It seemed unreal that anyone could be that forgiving. Too unreal to accept.

"B—but why?"

The teen shrugged. "I couldn't stop if I tried. You're precious to me."

"Stop that! Just . . . stop that." She averted his eyes. "You just can't."

"I do."

"No you don't."

"I do, I do."

"You don't! I know you don't! What if I had succeeded in killing your friends and M—" The rest of her sentence fell away, but she began again with renewed vigor. "What if I had killed all those people?! What would you have done?! Would you still feel that love with Peter and Neal dead?!"

Alfred's expression was a pained one. "What do you do when your kids kill each other?" He asked her, and he ran a shaky hand through his hair. "I deal with that reality every day, Charlie."

He gave a weak smile at her perplexed expression.

"It's so much easier to stop caring." He let out a long breath and tilted his head to the unseen sky. "But in the end, it's not fulfilling, nor rewarding. It took a long time to figure that one out."

He grasped his head, showing for the first time some frustration. "Even I don't really understand where I stand on these kinds of things, where that line is for unforgivable. Who crosses it and what happens— I don't know." He lifted his head and eyes to her once more though. "But for what I do know, I try and help. There are so many programs, Charlie, to help people repent and rebuild their lives."

She gave a light scoff. Charlie had seen how the system worked.

"Don't get me wrong, the system is flawed as hell, but it's always growing and trying to improve, and we're all trying to make it better. I'm sorry it's not perfect, I really, really am."

The honesty in his eyes made her turn her own irises away.

"But you gotta understand Charlie; you need to seek help on your own."

She struggled to voice her thoughts, something strange for a normally eloquent lawyer. "I get enough of _that_ here, thank you very much."

"Well someone must be getting something right then."

"It's not like I don't want to get out of here—"

"But you _don't _want to get out of here Charlie," He said knowingly.

The silence echoed for a few moments.

Alfred finally chuckled a little. "It's kinda funny, you know. Michael had agoraphobia, and he's trying to get better. You're pretty much nurturing that phobia, but it's a fear of the future that's outside not the _outside, _outside_."_

Tears started to build up in her eyes. She avoided the topic fervently, but confronted with the fearful reality of things, she knew it to be true. He was right when he said she didn't want to get out of here. She'd been making zero progress as of late, and her apathy to everything was growing frighteningly fast. His words from earlier came echoing back.

"_It's so easy to stop caring."_

"I don't know what to do," She uttered finally.

Alfred looked at his citizen for a long time.

"Let Michael in, Charlie."

Tears filled her eyes and she began to cry.

"He wants to help you. He's fighting against his nature to get to a better place so he can help _you_ get to a better place." Alfred smiled at the circle of things. "It's okay to rely on him, I promise. He isn't going to crumble. He's tougher than you give him credit for."

"Do you really think he'll be okay if I'm there?" It was childlike, and it made a fond smile grow over Alfred's face. It was always about Michael, always for Michael.

"I think he'll be better with you there." Alfred spoke honestly. "It'll be tough at first, but I think in the long-run, things can only get better between the two of you."

His words only made her cry more as they lifted off the self-imposed weight that had been sitting on her shoulders. Alfred just smiled and let her tears roll over him, refreshing faith with his people. Finally, he'd had enough tears, and she'd shed enough. He finally broke the silence.

"D'you think they'd let me stay and eat with you?" He gave her a bursting grin. "They're having Navajo tacos tonight, and I know how much you like Navajo Tacos."

She didn't ask how he knew that. Charlie had begun to understand that he was simply special. Yes, just as before, if ever she had kids, she wanted them to be able to smile like that.

Charlie stopped.

_She_ wanted to smile like that. With Alfred's grin on her, she had a feeling it wasn't beyond her reach.

"And guess what?" Alfred asked her.

"You like Navajo Tacos too?" She answered the rhetorical question.

"Right on! Let's get some then!"

She suddenly, for the first time since he'd arrived, felt older than the teen. "Dinner is served at seven Alfred; it isn't time to eat yet,"

The horrified look on his face made her smile.

"There's only one thing to do. You have to sing the Flash theme song with me to make dinner come faster." He spoke with all seriousness. Before she could make another sound, Alfred had already sucked in a deep breath and begun to belt.

"_Flash- DUN . . . A—OH, protector of the universe!"_

And she laughed.

She laughed like she hadn't laughed in months, which really felt like years to her. Worry-lines fell from her face, and unexpectedly the future didn't seem so harrowing, and the residential facility didn't seem so bleak. Her laughter painted the colors back onto the vacant walls, and she glowed with shimmers of the emotion, which she barely dared to feel, hope.

An aid opened the door. "Charlie, it's din—"

"YES! I knew it would work!" The teen fist-pumped and eagerly began to walk towards the door without even looking to see if Charlie was following behind him.

He already knew she was.

* * *

><p>Alfred managed to make it home far before Mathieu. Traffic in Ney York was notoriously awful. He hummed lightly as he entered the penthouse, chewing on a chocolate bar. He bought gummy bears for his fellow country, knowing he had some strnage fixation with bears.<p>

The moment he stepped into the house, his mind froze as he sensed the atmosphere in the room. It was tense and frustrated. He reached out with his mind, and what he found made him freeze. With slow steps he walked up the stairs. After dropping the plastic bag on the counter, he slowly approached his room and opened his door.

He wasn't surprised to see Neal and Peter seated on his bed, both with heavy expressions on their faces. Peter looked up as he entered and jumped to his feet, though Neal remained sitting, looking lost.

"Alfred!" Peter managed, looking awkward and frazzled, "We didn't hear you come in. Ah, we were just hoping to borrow one of your books and then we got caught up reading—"

"What are you?" Neal asked softly, cutting cleanly through his partner's babbling.

"Neal—" Peter began, trying to assuage his friend.

"No Peter! This time I want the truth, I don't want any more of your lies!" Neal stood up. The frustration was clear to see in his gaze and it begun to overflow. "So your family apparently are the keepers of all these secrets of American art, but no one knows about you because you've been protected by the secret service all the time? That makes no sense! And you say you're the president's assistant, and Elle believes you, but somehow no one has ever heard of you before. A high ranking position like that, and you've never even _been _to college before!" the more he spoke, the more things flooded out as the dam frustration that had been building for months finally broke. "And you don't even know your geography and yet you're some kind of math genius, and this picture! It's impossible, the dates don't match, and Mathieu and all your friends from different countries, and you read trashy magazines and cannery row and listen to pop and Elle Fitzgerald and— and— God, just . . . Please, tell me. All these lies, I can't handle them, it's driving me up the wall!"

Alfred stared at him for a long time. Before him there were two roads. He had a choice right now, between whether to tell them, or keep up his facade. The truth was so tempting, to be done with the games and the pretenses, to relish and bask in the glow of who he was. To be honest, to be frank . . . But he knew he couldn't.

His eyes flickered to the floor, and Neal had all the answers he needed.

Without another word, Neal brushed past Alfred and walked out the door. The click of the door closing made the sudden silence all the more suffocating.

Alfred sucked in a harsh breath, feeling his own frustration and sadness well up.

They didn't understand who he was—_couldn't._ If they knew the knowledge of who he was, the country could be at risk. All members of any kind of governmental organization risked being tortured for information. If any agent was captured by an enemy of the country, they would be interrogated. If the terrorists knew what questions to ask, the secret of the personification of the countries, what then? If they found America, then all would be lost . . . It had nearly happened before. Greg Smith, the kind pilot who'd flew him around the country. The bloodied prisoner who'd let loose that America would be in Hawaii for that infamous day that would go down in history.

He exhaled sharply.

Civilians were fine, and safe. One in every ten thousand knew him. That was okay, he was safe. And more importantly . . .

**_They_** were safe.

He thought about Alex and the cyanide pills he stored in one of his back molars . . .

No, he didn't want that for Peter or Neal. Hell, he didn't want that for anyone! But America did what was necessary for his people . . .

Peter eyed the teenager. He understood Neal's feelings. He understood the frustration, but when be looked at Alfred, all he could see was a kid who was dealing with things that were too important for him to handle.

"Hey, Al, don't worry about Neal," Peter said, walking up and patting the teen on his back. "He's just been having a hard day."

"Yeah," Alfred mumbled. He seemed to jolt out of his mood. A wide smile spread over his face. "Yeah, I know that! Geez, you'd have to be blind not to notice. We should buy him a masseuse. He looks really tense. "

The brimming smile he saw on the teens face had the opposite effect of assuring Peter. Because he couldn't tell it was fake. He knew it was, and yet it looked the same as Alfred's other smiles. What else was he hiding? What other pain . . . ?

Alfred wasn't paying attention to Peter's thoughts and he carried on. "I'd offer, but the last time I tried to give someone a massage I broke a rib." Alfred punctuated the statement with a laugh.

That startled Peter out of his thoughts. "What?!"

"Yeah, Arthur cursed a lot." Alfred grinned truthfully now, enjoying his inside joke, knowing Peter would misinterpret. It was really bad though . . . he hadn't been able to talk for a week, and every hamburger he tried to eat tasted like scones. He shuddered at the thought.

Peter shook his head at yet another mention of Alfred's questionable guardian. That guy really sounded like he was quite a character. Peter supposed Arthur would have to be to create a person like _Alfred._ He said as much and that just made Alfred laugh even more, though it quelled after a moment, and a petulant look settled across his face.

"Arthur is nothing like me. He's just plain weird. And British!" Alfred was quick to include.

Peter laughed lightly. "Of course, because you're the farthest thing from weird and British."

"Of course!" Alfred exclaimed.

Peter smiled, enjoying teasing the teen, "Though you do seem to enjoy those Harry Potter books a lot . . ."

Alfred looked utterly aghast. "No I don't!" He lied, "I hate those books even if they are clever and magical they're still sucky and British and like non-American!" The teen threw himself to the bookshelf and gathered his American books in his arms. "They'll never replace my babies!"

Peter stared at the spectacle the blonde was making of himself. He remembered feeling the same way earlier today when they'd stumbled across the fort Alfred had built in the living room. Peter smiled faintly when he remembered how Neal had forced the teen to clean it up and Alfred's complaints.

As Alfred coddled his books and whispered sweet things to them, Peter left the room. That was how it should be. Peter tried to banish the depressed image of the teen he'd seen for a moment. He wouldn't let it happen again. He'd keep the kid silly and book-coddling as best he could.

He closed the door quietly so as to not disturb Alfred. He shook his head lightly and wondered when he'd started feeling so paternal. Elle had always said he'd make a good father. When they'd first started working together, he felt a bit like a father figure to Neal, at least morally. Still, the fond and protective feeling had caught him by surprise as he'd never thought he'd feel it towards Alfred. He remembered the first case he and Neal had handled after getting possession of Alfred. He remembered the charade they put on as father and son. At the time, he had been furious and embarrassed. But when Alfred had stopped Charlie from killing herself and burning all of them to the ground, when he'd carried her out of the burning building, when he spoke about his mother, and when he spoke to his wife, Elizabeth . . .

He knew that the kid was intrinsically good. Flawed in more ways than Peter could count, but in every way that mattered, he was good, kind and earnest.

Peter admired that and had grown fond of the boy.

Which was why he would do what he could to help him. Starting with Neal.

Peter spotted his partner sitting in the kitchen with a glass of wine, swirling it idly.

"What unpronounceable wine is that?" Peter asked, settling in the next stool.

"_Côtes-du-Rhône Rouge."_ Neal answered taking a sip. "It's French."

"I got that." Peter spoke wryly. "I may not be able to speak French, but I can tell it apart from German and Italian."

There was silence.

"So, Neal," Peter began, scratching his head. "I know—"

"Look Peter, I don't really want to hear it," Neal said, uncharacteristically curt.

"Well you're going to have to." Peter wasn't letting him off the hook that easy.

"I don't know what to tell, you, he's lying and won't tell the truth," Neal said bitterly, "Whatever he does, whatever is going on— clearly we aren't fit to hear it."

"Neal, it's his business what he shares or doesn't share," Peter said, "Besides, you can't expect him to just spill thing that might be national secrets."

"Mozzie knows." Neal said, taking a large gulp of the red liquid.

Peter furrowed his brow. "What?"

"Mozzie," Neal said again, "He knows." He laughed lightly, "There was something that bothered me when they first met. The way they looked at each other, it was like they knew each other. And the way Mozzie looked and Alfred— It was different. Like he knew _Alfred_ was different."

Peter frowned. That explained it then. He wondered how long Neal had been sitting on that knowledge. It must have been eating him up inside. Mozzie wouldn't tell him, and Alfred played ignorant. It made sense to Peter now, especially considering that Neal and Mozzie were no longer talking.

He sighed. For someone with so many secrets of his own, Neal hated other people keeping things from him.

"Neal, I think you're forgetting something." He said at length.

"Right," Neal said, tone edged with sarcasm, "He has secrets to protect, he's involved with the president, yadda yadda—"

"No," Peter cut him off with a no-nonsense attitude, "You're forgetting that Alfred is still just a teenager."

Neal stopped swirling the wine.

"You can't put all that pressure on a kid like that. They can't handle it like an adult can," Peter said sagely, "The more you push 'em the more they resist."

Neal gave a weak, though genuine smile, "When did you get so wise about teenagers."

"I've had a lot of practice these last few months," Peter returned the smile.

"And besides," Peter continued, "When the times right, he'll tell us. We just have to wait." The fed let the words sink in before he stood and collected his suit jacket. "I'm going to visit Elle. I'll be back before ten."

As he approached the door, he jumped as it opened inward. Mathieu stood in the doorway blinking blankly at the appearance of the fed.

"Hello Peter," He greeted mildly.

"Er, Hello Mathieu," Peter awkwardly muscled out. He's forgotten about the Canadian boy. Why was he so easy to forget about?

"Is Alfred back?" Mathieu spoke and seemed a little nervous.

"Yes, he's here, why?" Peter asked quizzically. Then his mind put things together. "Wait, why wasn't he with you and Francis?!"

"Uhm, he was!" Mathieu was quick to assure, "I just uhh went out for a walk."

He was blatantly lying, and Peter sighed. He wanted to give Neal and Alfred a little time on their own, so he placed his hand on the younger man's shoulder and began shepherding him out the door he'd barely come in through.

"Why don't you come with me to see Elle?"

"W— well we already saw her earlier today."

"I know, you can say hello again," Peter said steering the younger man away.

"Well I suppose so."

"Right, we'll be back later Neal," Peter called. The fed groaned inwardly in his head. He had _plans_ for Elle and himself tonight. But giving Alfred and Neal the space they needed to work things out was more important. He had faith in Neal to see some logic in what he'd said. His plans with Elle could be put on hold . . . though he should probably text her just so she would know not to greet them in the lingerie and leather—

Peter smiled. Though the look on the Mathieu's face would be priceless. He shook away the evil thoughts.

As his partner ushered the one twin out the door, Neal ruminated on the other. He mulled over his partner's words in his head.

It was so easy to forget that Alfred was only nineteen. He behaved as though he was much older. Neal sighed and lay his head on the counter.

It seemed likely that he was _forced_ to behave that way. Neal couldn't imagine what it would be like to be nineteen and have to work at the White House and deal with paperwork like he'd seen in the blonde's room. It didn't seem like Alfred would have the time to behave like the teenager he was with all that responsibility.

Alfred might sing songs in the office and car and play hide-and-seek and build forts in the living room, but there was another level below that, deep in his eyes that was old. And when he argued and talked to Alfred, it didn't seem as though he was talking to someone younger than him.

Funnily enough, Alfred spent all his time pretending to be young and childish . . . and Neal thought that perhaps now he knew why.

It _was_ funny, but Neal didn't much feel like laughing.

He sighed aloud and was about to pour himself some more wine when the door from Alfred's room opened. Neal tried to look over at the blonde casually. Alfred didn't make eye-contact. Instead, the teen walked over to the cupboard and pulled out another wine glass. He moved to the wine rack and scanned the rows. His eyes lit up in recognition and he drew one of the bottle out with a wide smile.

Ignoring Neal's piercing gaze, he popped the cork and poured himself a glass.

Neal tried to quell the irritation he felt. When he had said, "Make yourself at home," all those months ago, he regretted in the very next day. He still did. Especially now.

"Did you want some wine, Alfred?' Neal asked sardonically.

"Yeah," he said calmly, taking a deep drink of the red wine.

"Couldn't use the bottle that was already open?"

Alfred made a face. "No, it's French."

Neal deadpanned. "Of course, why didn't I realize that?"

"I've had enough of him to last me decades," Alfred muttered into his glass. Neal ignored what nonsense the teen was mumbling.

He thought about maybe telling Alfred he wasn't allowed to drink, but thought better of it. Instead, Neal grabbed the bottle to see what 'American' wine Alfred had chosen.

"Oh," he said with mild surprise, "Columbia Valley Merlot."

"Yeah, it's one of my favorites." The teen grinned.

"I'm surprised," Neal said frankly, "You have good taste in wine."

"I know." Alfred gave him a cheeky smile, "Better than you right now."

Neal didn't dignify that with an answer.

Here was the schism again. A teenager with great wine taste who's favorite 'restaurant' is McDonalds. Neal never thought he'd understand.

The two said together for a while, simply sipping wine and enjoying the evening view.

Alfred, who claimed, (and displayed,) that he could never sit still, was entirely at rest. He swirled his glass lazily.

Neal stared at the strange teenager who'd managed to flip everything around. He looked at the bright golden hair and that annoying cowlick. The blue eyes beneath the thin frames that never left his face, were normally so piercing. Right now, they were sedate, calm and gentle.

If Alfred knew Neal was staring at him, he paid it no mind. It looked as though his thoughts were miles away, in a different place and time.

"Alfred," Neal began clearing his throat. He was so unused to being awkward. He'd been the cool smooth one for years. And then Alfred came along and all bets were off.

"Hmm?" The teen asked, drawing his eyes back to the present.

"I—" How did this work again? "I'm sorry for prying about things. I know you're allowed to have secrets, and you of course have more than most people . . ." Neal scratched his head. "What I mean, is that I'm sorry for being so troublesome and I won't do it again."

Alfred watched him for a moment. The lack of response made Neal hold his breath. In all honesty, the thought of not being forgiven had never crossed his mind. Alfred was too . . . Well . . .

"You shouldn't make promises you can't keep." Alfred spoke quietly, startling Neal.

The ex-con's mouth fell open. He scrambled to assemble some kind of reply, but the words weren't coming to him. It turned out, he didn't have to, because Alfred smiled suddenly.

"Hey, but it's the thought that counts, right?" That cheesy over-the-top grin made Neal relax, although he still felt perturbed by Alfred's reply.

As of knowing what Neal was thinking, Alfred's smile softened lightly.

"It's not your fault though," the teen said, "You're an investigator! You solve crimes and stop bombs from exploding and stuff! It's natural to be curious."

The forgiving tone still made Neal guilty. Neal knew he wasn't going to stop prying, he had just planned to be more subtle about it. He hadn't expected to be called out on it. Maybe by Peter, because the man knew him so well, but not by Alfred.

"It's all cool," Alfred exclaimed, "You're like Scooby Doo and the gang!"

"What?" Neal remembered watching that as a kid, but the sudden topic change threw him for a loop.

"Yeah!" The blonde looked excited. "I'm like Fred, and Peter could be Shaggy, and Elle could be Daphne— Oh and Peter and Elle have a dog! So Satchmo could be Scooby!"

Neal did some mental work. "That would make me Velma . . ." He said unhappily.

Alfred also paused. "Hmmm maybe you should be Shaggy. Your hair's kinda like his. Peter could be Velma."

As funny as the thought of Peter being Velma was, there was still no way Neal was going to be Shaggy in this hypothetical situation. "I'm not really a Shaggy."

Alfred threw up his hands in frustration. "Fine then! You can be Daphne!"

Neal choked on his wine. "What? Why Daphne? Why not Fred?" That was the obvious choice to him

"Well, you do your hair and stuff," Alfred started, "And I know you have ascots in your closet somewhere."

"When were you in my closet?" Neal asked, "And besides that! Fred wears ascots too!"

"Yeah, but Fred has blonde hair and blue eyes." Alfred said logically.

"And I have red hair?" Neal asked rhetorically.

"That isn't important," Alfred waved away, "You're resourceful like Daphne is! You can break out of handcuffs with anything! Like McGyver."

All the references were beginning to make Neal's head spin. "Alfred, the only time Daphne is resourceful is when she uses her compact mirror to do— something!" He failed to think of an example. "I don't even carry one of those."

"So?"

Neal stared at Alfred, deadpanned. "So I'm not Daphne."

Alfred frowned and scratched his head. "I still don't get why not . . . but if it really bother you, then you could be McGyver."

"I don't' remember him being on the show."

"No I mean as a special guest!" Alfred said excitedly. "It's that or the Harlem Globetrotters, but you don't like basketball."

That drew a wry smile out of Neal. "They stopped making those episodes Alfred. I'm surprised you even know about those. They're kind of before your time –" Neal stopped, and smiled lightly again, "Hell, they're before _my_ time."

Neal remembered watching it with his father after he'd get home from his patrol. It was one of the few memories he had of his father that weren't tainted by the knowledge his dad was a dirty cop. Thinking about his dad reminded him of the gun tucked away in one of his suit jackets. He forced his mind away from the topic and instead focused on the bright white of Alfred's wide smile.

"It wasn't that long ago." Alfred retorted, "Only a few decades," he waved it away with his hands.

Neal laughed, "Yeah of course, only fifty years, no big deal. I doubt your parents were even alive then."

Alfred tried to smother his laughter, and he blamed it on the wine, but it burst forth, louder than he'd meant it to be. At Neal's wide-eyed look, he smothered his giggles.

"Maybe you've had enough to drink," Neal moved the wine glass away from the teen. And the bottle as well, as a precautionary measure. "I guess you can't hold your alcohol."

"Can too!" Alfred sent him a dirty look. "The last time someone out-drank me was . . . . . . ." Alfred trailed off as he tried to recall the time racking his brain through the years and decades he'd been alive for until he reached his conclusion.

. . . . . . . . Several months ago at the last countries meeting. Alfred sighed inwardly. Goddamn Russia.

Nevermind. Alfred frowned petulantly.

He supposed he'd never finish that sentence.

Neal was smiling again, so Alfred figured he could let it slide and allow Neal to be Fred.

Even if Fred was a hero with blonde hair and blue eyes.

* * *

><p>Sooo yeah. There we go. More than a little bit of a filler chapter, but<strong> stuff<strong> happens next time, sooo . . .

Oh and I was thinking of doing and Angel/Bones crossover . . . Any takers? Lol, project number . . . *Runs out of fingers* Hehe . . . nevermind. Does anyone know any Angel/Bones stories? I need . . .

Anyways, I've got a shit ton of finals to take, so you should thank my teachers and my procrastination for this chapter . . .

Cheers!


	18. A Day that Isn't a Walk in the Park

**Hi everyone. Thank you for your support and patience. We are winding down to the end of things!**

_**I HAVE A SPECIAL SURPRISE AT THE END OF THE CHAPTER!~**_

**Thanks for the reviews and favs and EVERYTHING**

**Special shout out to Karmicatian for her lovely PM.**

**Almost the end!**

**Disclaimer: I do not own "The Flash," "Hetalia," nor "White Collar."**

PSsst. STUFF HAPPENS THIS TIME!

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><p>Chapter 18:<p>

A Day That isn't really a Walk in the Park.

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><p><em>"Everybody has their own America, and then they have pieces of a fantasy America that they think is out there but they can't see…So the fantasy corners of America…you've pieced them together from scenes in movies and music and lines from books. And you live in your dream America that you've custom-made from art and schmaltz and emotions just as much as you live in your real one." <em>

_~ Andy Warhol ~_

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><p>Peter stirred in another spoon of sugar into his morning coffee. He glanced at his watched and sighed as he waited for Alfred to finish getting ready. The teen's lack of punctuality was a usual part of their morning ritual. Peter and Neal would be by the door, ready to leave by about 8:00 and Alfred would be rummaging through his closet still or sleeping, (despite being woken repeatedly by both Neal and Peter.) Then the teen would come out wearing something utterly ridiculous, (like a superhero costume, colonial garb, too many American flags for Neal to handle, etc.) and they would spend about five to ten minutes arguing until Alfred went back into the room and changed. The addition of Mathieu did nothing to help the system, instead, Alfred just had one more member to the audience.<p>

"Alfred, we're going to be late!" Peter called into the hallway from the kitchen counter where he, Neal, and Mathieu sat.

"I'm almost done! Give me a sec!"

"He said that five minutes ago," Peter muttered under his breath.

Finally, about three minutes later, Alfred exited the hallway.

"Alfred," Peter began blankly, "What are you wearing?"

The sunny teenager gave him a wide grin before twirling. "Nice huh?"

"Yes . . . Surprisingly . . ." Neal commented from the side.

Today, Alfred was wearing a pair of faded tan jeans and a dark blue chambray button up shirt. His shoes were brown leather Oxford wingtips, and over his shirt he wore a large bister colored leather jacket. Fur outlined the collar and there was a large star on the front and a plane on the shoulder. As he turned, they also saw the large '50.'

"You look normal. What's the occasion?" Peter asked as he drained the last of his coffee and set the cup in the dishwasher.

"It's fashion week!" Alfred said excitedly, "Is that right Mattie?" He shook his twin enthusiastically.

"Y-yeah." Mathieu managed as he was pushed and pulled repeatedly.

"I didn't take you as one interested in fashion," Neal said honestly.

Alfred shrugged. "A lot of _people_ I know are." He smiled a little mysteriously at his brother. "And besides, I'm interested in everything!"

Neal just blinked at the declaration. From what he had seen, that tended to be the case for the blond teen . . . aside from things deemed too 'un-American.' Really, Neal doubted anyone could match Alfred's fervor in his exclamations of love for his mother country.

"Still, you don't seem to be one to splurge on high fashion, unlike Neal," Peter teased.

"Presentation matters," Neal replied, straightening the cuffs of his sleeves.

"If I have anything super trendy it's 'cause the designers give it to me," Alfred said lightly.

"What?" Peter asked, incredulously.

"They just give it to you?" Neal's expression was dubious. "Is it because

"Yeah! This shirt is Ralph Lauren, ah, these shoes are from Michael Kors and my pants are from Marc Jacobs." Alfred pointed out each item, remembering each designer individually.

"And let me guess, Calvin Kline gave you that jacket and Vera Wang cuts your hair," Peter said sarcastically. Sometimes the things Alfred said were too ridiculous. Neither Neal nor Peter were buying this one.

Alfred must have missed his sarcasm because he shook his head.

"No, my jacket is from my great, great Grandfather. He fought in World War Two as a fighter pilot." Alfred stroked the familiar material.

"It's been a while since I've seen that jacket," Mathieu said nostalgically, "You used to wear it every day."

Neal's practiced eyes ran over the material, and sure enough, he found signs of wear and tear that came from age, and holes from bullets that surely were a sign of war—

Neal stopped for a moment. A disturbing thought ran through his head. "Alfred, was your great-great Grandfather shot down in action?"

"No, I don't think so," Alfred said after some thought.

"I was just looking at those nice bullet holes." His voice was lightly sarcastic as he pointed towards the ripped back of the jacket Alfred was wearing.

"Well look at that!" Allfred exclaimed as he twisted his neck to see, "I'd forgotten about that! Those were actually pretty recent. Got them from a tragic cooking accident if I remember correctly."

Neal stared at him oddly, without a lick of understanding. "What?"

"Arthur tried to make scones while we were, ah, _camping _in Europe. I told him they tasted like shit and suddenly I was running from his gun. He was a lot more temperamental back then."

"Isn't Arthur you're guardian?" Peter was unable to keep the concern from his voice. The more Alfred talked about his guardian, the more dubious the character became.

Alfred laughed long and hard, "Don't worry, he didn't hit me. He only shot my jacket because I wanted to see if I could be a matador like Spai— Uhh Antonio always talked about. He's my friend from Spain."

Neal and Peter exchanged glances. Of course, his friend from Spain. One of the many people across the world the teen apparently knew.

Unaware of their thoughts, Alfred pushed on, "Anyways, the minute I saw Arthur's face after I told him his scones sucked ass, it hit me; he looked like he was going to rage like a bull! So I pulled my jacket off and tried to get him to charge."

" . . . And so he shot at you?" Neal asked, feeling bewildered by Alfred's stories.

Alfred smiled lightly.

"Alfred . . ." Mathieu sighed.

"Right, you're right, we should be going now; we don't want to make Peter late for work." Alfred gripped his brother's shoulder and began shepherding the other towards the door. Neal and Peter just exchanged looks before shaking their heads in unison. There was no point in pressing Alfred any further, by know they knew that no matter how much Alfred explained, they would never understand.

"Alfred, I already told you, I can't come with you," Mathieu said as he tried to pry off Alfred's strong grip with limited success.

Alfred gaped, "I thought you were joking! How could you be so serious about something so terrible! You can't leave me with them!"

"Ack! Let go Alfred!" Mathieu urged, "I told you already! I have work to take care of while I'm here." He had several meetings to attend, along with scoping out the fashion show. "I can't bring back pictures for the shows today if you don't let me leave."

Alfred pouted. "But they're so _booring_!~"

Peter felt a little annoyed.

"Just because we can sit still for a few hours without going crazy, doesn't mean we're boring," Peter sniffed. Alfred gave him a look that showed the federal agent how seriously he took that comment.

" . . . Right. See what I mean? They're like robots! No one can sit still for that long! What if they make me into one of them? A cyborg me! You'll be super upset—" He halted.

"Well actually I suppose that there's no way I'd be a sucky robot, so I'd have like rocket boots and exploding fists and I'd fight crime, but you'd still be sad! Who would keep you warm?!"

His Northern brother smiled and gave a little giggle at his antics.

"Maybe, I could like transform into the form of a heater like they do on the Wonder twins or transformers. That would be kind of a lame transformation though. Oh! Not if I make a really cool transformation sequence with awesome music and cool CGI effects. But I suppose that being a robot would mean I wouldn't have to use— Ahh! What are you doing?!"

Neal and Peter each took one of Alfred's arms and dragged him away from his laughing brother.

"Bye Mathieu, we'll see you later alright?" Peter called over his shoulder.

"Take care! I'll see you later Alfred." The Canadian man fondly waved goodbye.

* * *

><p>Alfred pouted petulantly in the backseat of Peter's car for several blocks until Peter turned into the busy drive-thru at the McDonalds on the corner. Neal balked. It was the same McDonalds Alfred had dragged him to the time he tried to reunite Neal and Mozzie. Inwardly he shied away from thinking too hard about the bald man. He distracted himself by staring incredulously at his partner until the older man felt his gaze prickling at his back.<p>

"What?" Peter asked, noting the very skeptical look on Neal's face.

"McDonalds Peter?" The raised eye-brow perfectly completed the younger man's look of disbelief.

Peter gave a shrug, letting the other's expression slide off him like water on a duck's back. "Does this mean you don't want anything?"

Neal sighed. "I'll have a coffee, two creams and one sugar."

"Yes! I am soo starving!" Alfred was pumped. "I want seven McMuffins and a shake and a big mac and two double cheeseburgers and some fries and a smoothie."

The other two listened to his long rambling sentence with fading interest.

"Welcome to McDonalds, may I take your order?" The voice buzzed from the intercom.

"Yeah, I'll five McMuffins, a coffee with two sugars and one cream and a smoothie, I don't care what flavor." The FBI agent was short and to the point.

"Hey Peter! You forgot all my stuff!" Alfred quickly unrolled the window and shouted to the intercom before Peter could drive to the window.

"I want a chocolate shake, two double cheeseburgers and some fries and like eight McMuffins . Make it into a combo or something." He said flippantly and Peter looked at him incredulously.

"You added more stuff than before! What makes you think I'm paying for all that junk?" The fed asked in his best parent voice.

"Why don't I treat you to breakfast?" Alfred offered giving Peter an Oscar winning smile.

Peter just gave a little grunt as he pulled up to the window.

"Hi, thanks for choosing McDonalds, your total comes to $30.98," A tired looking teenager said in monotone as she answered the window.

"He's the one paying." Peter gestured to Alfred who was pulling his wallet out from his many pockets.

"Hey, I'm Alfred F. Jones. You can put this on my tab," Alfred said with a blinding smile as he pulled out his I.D. card out to show the teen.

Peter and Neal were staring at Alfred, two thoughts running through their minds. The first was a question about whether the blonde was prone to having delusional fantasies. The second was mostly a realization, followed by some accepting sighs as the two comprehended that if Alfred was having a delusional fantasy, he _would_ pick to have a tab at McDonalds.

"Sir, you do know this is McDonalds right? We don't do tabs." She raised an eye-brow with a vaguely irritated expression, silently questioning if Alfred was an idiot.

"Just show your supervisor or something." Alfred said rolling his eyes and the teen plucked the card from his grip with a look or skepticism before turning and walking away.

Peter gave the teen a stern look. "Alfred, if you're trying to get out of paying, you can stop wasting our time. I'll buy the damn—"

"Shh!" Alfred pointed to the window. "Watch."

Through the glass they could see the teen worker walking up to a bulky looking lady, who must have been the manager. They watched her mouth move silently. The manager's response must have frightened the girl because she jumped and dropped the card before apologizing repeatedly. Then the second figure walk up to the window with the teen following behind her in a repentant fashion.

"We are so sorry about this Mr. Jones, we're still training some of the newbies," The older lady said, shooting a glance back at the younger woman who quailed.

"Nah, don't worry. It happens a lot," He said, smiling as he accepted the card and tucked it carefully into his wallet. His I.D. was a national treasure and he was sure if he lost it the president would flip a table.

"Here's your food. Have a very nice day sir," She passed him a large bag and a drink carrier.

"You too, Anna," Alfred replied fondly to her surprised face. The manager had lost her nametag last week.

She didn't have time to say anything, because Peter had already driven out of the drive-thru and into the traffic filled streets of New York.

"Should I even ask how—"

"Or why for that matter," Neal poked in

"—You have a tab at McDonalds?" Peter asked feeling nonplussed. He dug his two McMuffins out from the bag and passed the rest to Alfred's greedy hands.

"I'm their number one customer," Alfred informed them happily as he munched on his fries. The two both gave him disgusted looks for eating that much junk-food for breakfast. The pungent smell of fast-food did nothing for their moods.

"So they gave you a tab?" Neal asked and Alfred shrugged. Any further conversation was halted when Peter's phone rang.

"Burke." A pause.

"Yeah I'll be right there." He flipped his phone shut and regarded his companions with a smile.

"You'd better eat fast; we've got a case waiting for us."

"You mean like an actual case?" Alfred asked hopefully.

"Mortgage fraud doesn't count as a case," Neal reminded him.

"Oh it's a real case," Peter grinned, "All the other teams are busy so we got a real case."

"Finally!" Alfred gave a fist pump and Neal smiled, agreeing with the notion.

* * *

><p>The trio drove immediately to the site. Much to Alfred's delight it was Central park. He rolled down the window and stared with blatant excitement at their surroundings.<p>

"Have you ever been to Central Park, Alfred?" Peter asked, amused by Alfred's reaction.

"Tons of times."

"I take it you like it then." Neal spoke rhetorically.

"Of course! It's so beautiful!" Alfred exclaimed. He could hear the sounds of his citizens echoing through the brush and he shut his eyes to feel the sensation. So many people—

"Come on Alfred, we have to be quick and quiet, understand?" Peter pressed, bringing the teen back to the present. All three carefully and quietly entered a black van parked by the side of Central Park. Inside, there were two other Agents, Dianne Berrigan and Clint Jones. There were several small TVs showing different views of the park and surveillance equipment hung on the walls.

"Looking sharp, Alfred," Dianne said by way of greeting.

"Thanks!" He said cheerily. "You too!"

Indeed, the agent looked casual but fashionable wearing a dark green safari dress with tan wedges and a large sunhat. Neal noted the change.

"Good morning, you look lovely," Neal complemented, "I smell undercover work."

"Thanks," She smiled.

"Spot on," Clinton said.

Peter sat in one of the observing chairs. It was a little tight with all the equipment, but Neal and Alfred were seated on one side, Clinton and Peter on the other. At the head, nearest to the front was Dianne.

"What do we have?" Peter asked eagerly.

"I can tell you've missed being on the field," Dianne said with a smile as she handed him a briefing folder.

"You don't know the half of it," Peter murmured before his eyes shifted to Alfred.

"Hey!" Alfred exclaimed, offended, "It isn't my fault that I'm really valuable, and you burned down a building!"

"He doesn't blame _you, _Alfred," Dianne assured him.

"Oh yes he does," Peter replied absently as he leafed through the papers. Alfred pouted, leading Peter to ignore him. "Hey Neal, have you heard anything about this guy?"

"What guy?" Neal asked, peering over his partner's shoulder to read the file.

"There's been a string of reported instances of art fencing around Central Park recently."

"_Reported?!_" Neal asked surprised, "This guy must be stupid if he's been reported multiple times, during the day, at a public place," He paused as what he said really registered, "What idiot would do business there?" He spoke frankly.

Peter snorted, "Yeah well, as stupid as this guy is, he's never been captured."

"Several of our rats report that there's an art fencer working out of Central Park, but every time the police scan the place, the guy's already gone," Clinton filled in.

"I see, so we have a ghost fencer, eh?" Neal said, smiling lightly, "Interesting."

"I almost pity this guy," Dianne said, shaking her head, "He gets to be your first case after being off the field for so long."

"He picked the wrong day to fence paintings," Peter grinned.

"Do we have a description?" Neal asked, moving the case along.

"Nothing too solid," Dianne's tone was dismayed, "All we know is that this guy shows up in a different part of Central Park every time. He tells his contacts where he wants to meet them and then he appears."

"So what's the plan?" Peter asked.

"Well, for the past couple months, I've established a false identity as an art collector with questionable morals," Diane explained, "I'm interested in more alternative methods of acquiring art. It was touch and go for a while, with a lot of wrong leads, but I finally got a reference to the Central Park fencer."

"So you've set up a meeting?" Peter asked.

"Sort of," She answered with a light shrug, "I'm supposed wander around. He claims that he'll find me."

"A marker?" Peter guessed.

His coworker nodded. "I need to put a yellow band around my ankle and wrist."

"So it's possible he's watching from somewhere then." Peter's eyes wandered to the various views of the park on the screens.

Agent Clinton Jones cut in. "But we thought that rather try and hunt him down, we'd just wait for him to come to us."

"Trying to locate him hasn't been very successful in the past," Dianne said.

"Good idea," Neal murmured, still reading through the information in the file.

"Well," Peter grinned, "How are we doing this then?"

"I'm going to start walking around the park. You two," She pointed towards Peter and Clinton, "Are going to pretend to be joggers. This is a low risk operation, so we couldn't get the bureau to spare any more agents, so the two of you will need to split coverage."

Peter nodded. He was trying to be careful about his suggestions, since Dianne was leading this case and not himself, "Alright, but I think it might be wise for one of us should rent a bicycle."

"What do you mean?" She asked.

"In case he tries to run, we'll have greater mobility."

She paused, considering the pros and cons, before agreeing. "Very well, you'll be the bicyclist."

He nodded before he looked around a little awkwardly.

"Here, there's a change of clothes and running shoes," Clinton Jones offered a duffel, as though reading Peter's mind.

Peter accepted the bag gratefully.

The space in the car was limited, so he awkwardly made his way to the front. Dianne turned her back and faced Alfred and Neal as Peter began changing. She made sure to keep her expression blank and professional.

"Aaannnd," Alfred led in, "What will I be doing?"

Dianne smiled at him, "You get to watch the van with Neal."

"What!" Alfred complained.

Neal was also looking fairly dismayed with this newest development.

"And I get to watch Alfred and the van?" Neal guessed with a sigh.

"And coordinate our communications," Dianne corrected.

"Someone has to do it," Peter said as he walked back towards the back of the van. He was wearing a plain grey t-shirt, navy shorts and Nike running shoes. Clinton grabbed another black duffel and moved to the front of the car to change.

"Whaaaat?!" Alfred protested even louder, "I don't need protecting!"

"Prove it to me this time by staying out of trouble," Peter said, "And hey, look at it this way, you have the best seats in the house."

Alfred still pouted, making Peter ruffle his hair.

"What's our timeframe?" Neal asked.

"Our appointment begins at eleven."

Peter glanced at his watch noting the time of ten thirty. "I think I'll head out now so I can grab a bike and get a feel of the area. It's a big park."

"That's why we're all using earpieces and landmarking," Dianne said, giving Peter an earpiece and receiver disguised as small headphones. He clipped the receiver to his shirt before nodding.

"Alright." He was about to leave when he hesitated. "Neal do you have your dummy gun?"

Neal barely resisted pulling a face, "Yes."

"Alright, I'm giving you ten rubber bullets, don't use them unless it's to protect yourself or Alfred." Peter counted out the bullets from his pocket and handed them to an unenthusiastic Neal.

"Thanks," He said tightly, not tacking on the tempting, '_mom.'_ He hated guns.

"Is there anything else?" Peter addressed Dianne.

She shook her head. "No. This is a fairly straightforward investigation. Remember to landmark and don't get too far away. I'll report when I find the guy and keep him engaged while you two close in. Agent Jones will follow in about fifteen minutes and then I'll leave."

Peter nodded with a serious expression before stepping out of the van and into the street.

Clinton was the next to go out, now wearing a red t-shirt and grey athletic shorts. The minutes ticked by until Dianne too stood to leave.

"It's good having you back around." She smiled sincerely at both Neal and Alfred before she left the van.

Neal let out a sigh.

He was condemned to babysit in a van during their first actual case in months. Where was the fairness in the world? His only consolation was that Alfred wasn't bouncing off the walls like usual. Instead, the teen was staring at the screens with disinterest. His charge's rapid mood swings were rather entertaining. Alfred didn't seem capable of not making some expression at every little thing that happened to him.

"Peter checking in." The static-y voice of Neal's partner sounded through the van. "I'm near a horse rental at the front of the park."

"I can see it a little ahead." Dianne's voice answered. "Slow your pace a little, please."

"Roger." Peter replied, respecting the leading agent's concerns. His voice was a little strained from the exercise.

Neal and Alfred watched what was happening with dull expressions.

"Can we go around the park after the mission?" Alfred pressed down one of the red buttons and asked into the speaker. "I'm gonna get fat if you keep me in here all the time!"

Peter quickly snapped back.

"Alfred, this is an official investigation— do not take over the communications to ask stu—"

The teen clicked the mute on and waited for a few moments until he figured Peter was done.

"—nderstand?"

"Yup," Alfred replied. Neal couldn't resist smiling.

"Neal, keep him away from the mic." Peter's voice was weary.

"Sure thing, Peter." Neal gave Alfred a sharp look before he sighed, pulled his finger off the speaker button and addressed the teen solely. "You know, if you didn't eat so much fast-food you wouldn't have to worry about getting fat."

"I am not fat! I just have a lot of surface mass." Alfred sniffed, pulling his jacket around himself self-consciously.

"I never said you were." Neal shook his head at Alfred's continual weird phrases. "Which is crazy, because I don't think I've seen you do any exercise since I've known you and your eating habits certainly leave something to be desired."

"What's that supposed to mean?!" Alfred asserted.

Neal smirked.

"Status report?" The only female of the group asked.

"This is Peter, I'm coming up to the Central Park Zoo."

"Jones speaking, I'm at the Victorian Gardens. You are in my sight Dianne."

"I'm still at the Wollman Rink," Dianne said. "Peter, try and loop around so that you're closer to me."

"Copy." Peter replied.

Alfred and Neal watched the three move around the park from the van. Neal decided to entertain himself by texting a few female companions that he'd missed in his long term of celibacy since Alfred— and by extension, Peter— had moved in. The teen sighed repeatedly as the three agents on the field moved around all the cool, awesome New York places that Alfred wanted to go to. There were a few more communications but generally the van was silent sans the occasional check in from the team undercover.

Neal began twirling his phone between his dexterous fingers while he waited for another reply from one of his casual associates. His eyes eventually made their way to the teen beside him. His mind drifted back to the honest conversation that the two had had, in which Alfred had _completely _seen through his intentions, and Neal had been labeled Velma in their Scooby gang repeatedly.

Neal wondered when it was exactly that he'd gotten used to having such absurd conversations. Even Mozzie's impressive talent for the random paled in comparison. Before Alfred had come along, Neal would have hardly imagined having such ridiculous chats with anyone he knew. It merely drove the point home exactly how _different _Alfred was compared to anyone else Neal had met. The teenager with a monstrous appetite and fickle moods, who was as erudite as he was uncultured, and embodied countless other contradictions. Alfred was unquestionably remarkable. There was something about him that had people turning towards him, like sunflowers to the sun— even strangers! What was it that made him shine so brightly in Neal's eyes? The ex-con knew that there was something unnatural about the teen, and yet Neal had a feeling in his gut that it wasn't what made Alfred so . . . _Alfred. _Which drew a serious question about if it was a mental disorder or what, because how anyone could be so blatantly multifaceted in so many ways was a complete mystery to Neal.

As though sensing the weight of his thoughts, Alfred flicked his cerulean gaze towards Neal. The teen's eyes were unusually blank, and Neal felt as though Alfred looking through his outer appearance, and into his very mind. The sensation was unnerving enough to make a small shiver chase through Neal's body, but he found that he was unable to break the eye-contact.

After an indeterminable moment, Alfred blinked and gave him a bright smile.

The heavy air in the van vanished so quickly it was as though it had never been leaden to begin with. Alfred's eyes went back to the screen and he hummed to himself as he watched the three agents on the field. His temperament seemed much improved, and Neal had to wonder what had changed while Alfred had been staring at him.

"What are you smiling about, Alfred?" Neal asked curiously.

"You're such a funny guy!" Alfred said out of the blue, still grinning lightly.

Neal blinked at the non sequitur. "What?" he said, ineloquent in his surprise.

Alfred ignored the question. "You're such a good man sometimes."

Neal was going to tease the teen, but honestly he was too confused about what the teen was thinking.

"You know, when I met you, I was so totally shocked!" The teen's voice was amused, and he went on, unaware of Neal's mounting confusion. "I read all about you in your file and I thought I got a grip on your personality. You were too good-looking to be a nefarious no-good criminal guy, that's what I remember thinking. They couldn't have written what a charming dude you were— couldn't get it on the paper, ya know?"

"I suppose I should say thank you?" Neal asked, confused.

"No, no," Alfred shook his head. "When I got to see you _in action_ I knew that you were lots more than what they'd written down." He's seen the potential in Neal, and then he'd seen the evolution take place. Visibly seen his citizen grow over time, in how he dealt with Alfred, how he struggled with his difficulty with his friend, Mozzie, and how he coped with the loss of his girlfriend Kate. They had been subtle changes, but Alfred's practiced eyes had caught every one. He knew that his people changed and grew and struggled, but to see it first hand was better than television. Alfred felt indescribably proud. Neal's journey in figuring out his life was something Alfred had delighted in seeing.

Neal had been alone for a long time with a dirty cop for a father that tainted his view of the world, and an absent mother. He had lost one of his closest people. But then he and Peter had become partners, and it invited _more _into his life. He'd met his landlady, June, who was generous, and the Elle who cared about him unwaveringly. Stability was something Neal had never truly had before. Peter though was constant and reliable.

Alfred smiled. Because against all the forces out there, all Neal's mistakes, regrets, and losses, he had found a home.

"I'm just really happy for you, that's all."

Alfred couldn't help but grin because life had turned around for his citizen in an unprecedented way. Like a movie! A really great American movie!

"Alfred," Neal said after a time, wondering what the teen was thinking, "what—"

A voice from the speakers cut off Neal's words. "I think I see our fencer, he's approaching me."

Neal and Alfred both jumped at Dianne's words and then quickly looked towards the screens where she was standing.

"Location?" Peter quickly answered.

"Delacorte Music Clock," Dianne replied. Sure enough, Neal and Alfred could see Dianne standing underneath the clock. They could also make out who they assumed she mentioned as the potential mark. A bulky, dark haired man was slowly circling around the area where Dianne stood. What set him apart was that he was facing forward as he moved around the perimeter, leading the agents to believe he was scoping out the area.

"You're within my line of sight, Dianne," Clinton said. Neal's eyes dashed around the screen to find the male agent and spied him further away, covertly tying his shoe as he talked into his receiver.

"You're in front of the Delacorte Music Clock?" Peter demanded. The strain in his voice was clear and they heard heavy panting.

"Yes." Dianne replied.

"I don't like it," Peter said, "The music clock is right across from—

"The children's zoo," Alfred murmured, right along with Peter.

Neal's eyes widened with concern.

"This changes the situation," Dianne spoke hastily into her watch as she made a show of rearranging her earring. "We _cannot_ let this situation escalate."

"Two minutes away." Peter grunted.

"If it starts going bad we will withdraw. We can't afford to get into anything here. There are too many children around." Dianne's voice was harried now. "Neal do you have a clear view at the moment."

"Yes," Neal replied.

"Taking up point on your four o'clock." Clinton said.

"Switching to nonverbal. Relay to the team Neal."

"On it." Neal moved closer to the screen and honed his gaze on the female agent and the now approaching male.

"I'm between three and five minutes away." Peter panted over the radio.

"Roger." Neal replied for Dianne.

Everyone was silent as the man from before finally closed in on Dianne. As he stood still, Neal and Alfred could make out that he was around his mid-to-late thirties. His hand was twitching nervously, putting them all on edge. Dianne maintained a relaxed air though, and greeted the person who approached with a smooth smile.

"Miss Foster?" The male's voice rang gruffly through the van's speakers.

"Pleased to meet you," she replied coolly, in her alias' confident persona.

"Our communal friend said you got an interest in Rothko," he murmured.

Neal scanned the area of the screen again. They saw Peter enter the frame.

"Peter, your best position would be near the tall oak to your right."

"Copy." Peter put his down to hold the bike in place while he drank some much needed water at a nearby fountain. All the while, he covertly scouted out the situation.

His mouth pressed together unhappily. "There are too many people."

"It's possible this guy is unarmed," Clinton reminded him.

"Dianne, do you see a weapon?" Peter asked.

From his spot in the van, Neal was able to make out Dianne's subtle adjustment of her ring.

"None that she can see," Neal answered for her.

"Don't assume anything," Peter warned. "Let's get a little closer."

"Copy." Clinton echoed.

Meanwhile, Dianne's and the fencer's conversation was moving along according to plan. Right now they were haggling the cost of the painting. When Peter and Clinton got into position, she would agree on a price and that was their sign to get their guns out. Hopefully, they'd be able to wrap this up without setting off any alarm in the park. If he went along quietly, they could maybe just do it.

The fact that the suspect's eyes were darting every which way was decidedly concerning. Clinton and Peter were having a hard time acting inconspicuously.

Though it was tense the entire way, they managed to get into close enough to support Dianne in her the arrest.

"Very well, I'll settle for seven point three million," Dianne said, with a smooth smile. She held her hand out for the other man to shake.

He stared cautiously at her for a moment before he extended his hand and gripped hers. Dianne yanked him forward, setting him off-balance, and pulled the hand she held behind his back. Neal and Alfred smiled as Clinton and Peter began walking forward to close the gap.

The criminal didn't look to upset, which set off dull alarm in Neal's mind, but he set it aside to deal with later. Alfred on the other hand jolted visibly as he looked to the clock on his phone.

"You are under arrest for the illegal fencing of art—"

"Dianne!" Alfred cried into the speaker. "The clock—

But it was too late. A loud, cheery sound began to echo through the park from the Delacorte monument, and people in the area began moving towards the clock.

Dianne's concentration only wavered for a moment, but it was enough. The criminal ripped himself from her grip and pushed her back. She recovered quickly and assumed a solid stance before delivering a quick roundhouse kick the man barely dodged.

Peter and Clinton immediately reached for their guns, but Neal put a stop to it.

"No! The area's getting too crowded," he reminded them, concern laced through his voice.

"Shit." Peter cussed under his breath as he got closer for support anyway. A crowd was gathering now, eager to see the fight.

"_They think it's a show,"_ Peter thought unhappily.

"Hey, everyone, clear the area!" Clinton shouted.

"This is not a park attraction, this is a real FBI arrest!"

It did little to disperse the riveted, cheering audience.

The criminal was moderately skilled at fighting, but he wasn't nearly as good as Dianne. She dodged his right hook before delivering a quick combo of a jab and roundhouse kick. The criminal was knocked backwards and sent sprawling to the ground. The crowd parted to prevent anyone from being smashed. Dianne smiled a little in victory as she moved forward to arrest the dazed criminal.

Her heart stopped as she realized that this could get much more seirous. By the time she realized, it was too late; the criminal had grabbed a young dark-haired girl from the crowd, pulled a gun from his coat, and put it up to her head. She let out a screech of terror and began struggling vainly against his grip.

Now, the audience dispersed with cries of fear and horror and Dianne's hand darted to her thigh holster. Peter, Dianne, and Clinton immediately trained their guns on the criminal target.

"Here's what's going to happen," the man spoke. The confidence in his tone made disgust run across Neal's expression. He felt completely helpless watching the events from the van. Alfred was feeling similar. His teeth were gritted in anger and frustration as he watched his citizens struggle.

"I am going to leave this park. You, are not going to follow me, or we'll see how long it takes a bullet to reach this kid's brain."

The child in his arms sobbed pitiably as the cold metal lay heavily against her head.

"Neal, status," Peter hissed quietly into his speaker.

"I-I- I don't think any of you have a perfect shot. You got out of formation trying to clear the crowd."

Peter worked his jaw furiously as he tried to figure a way out of this.

Dianne moved an inch forward and found a bullet lodged in her thigh for her troubles.

She let out a muffled scream as she collapsed to the ground.

"You all now know that the gun is loaded," the criminal said as a pool of blood began spreading onto the ground around Dianne. Neal exhaled sharply in horror and Alfred's face was pained. The teen immediately whipped out his phone and began dialing 911.

"Bastard!" Clinton hissed.

"Now then, do I need to shoot all of your legs out, or will you put down your guns and let me leave peacefully."

"Don't worry about me Peter," Dianne pushed, her voice strained from the pain.

"Oh he should worry. I doubt you could dodge a bullet it your state."

The female agent paled, and the distress on her face betrayed her true worry at the situation.

"_911 operator, what is your emergency."_

Neal distantly heard the small voice from Alfred's phone's speaker. He was numbly glad that the teen was as rational as he was.

"We have an FBI agent with a bullet wound in front of the Delacorte Music clock at Central park. No civilian casualties, but the shooter does have a hostage." Alfred summarized the situation briefly and efficiently.

"_We've dispatched help, where is the bullet wound."_

"Upper thigh, not immediately life-threatening, but there is always a risk of infection which could lead to amputation if untreated."

Neal choked on air at the teen's cold and clinical words.

"_Please stay on the line whil—"_

"Thank you," Alfred said before he hung up on the operator and turned his attention back to the screen. Neal just stared disbelievingly at the emotionless teen beside him.

"Alright, we'll put our guns down," Peter said after a long time.

"Peter, no!" Dianne shouted furiously. "I am the lead agent, don't you dare put the gun down!"

"You are in no shape to be making orders," Peter said in reply. "As the next in charge, I'm taking over this operation."

His tone left no room for argument and Dianne had to bite back the tears of frustration and self-anger as she complied.

Clinton and Peter placed their guns on the ground carefully.

The criminal grinned madly before he began running, dragging the crying girl with him.

Clinton quickly picked up his gun, but couldn't get a steady shot from the rapidly moving target and increasing distance. He exhaled in frustration before he moved to the ground where Peter was helping put pressure on Dianne's nasty looking wound.

"Neal, call 911." Peter directed

"Alfred already did that. They've dispatched an ambulance already." Neal informed the older man quickly.

Neal's attention was directed away from his partner as he saw the figure of the man move across multiple camera frames as he ran through the park. He was heading towards the parking lot . . . And it wasn't too far from where they had parked either!

Neal watched as the criminal reached a black non-descript van. He tossed the girl in the back roughly before locking the door and beginning to pull out.

Neal visibly jolted as he realized that he was in position to help save the girl.

"Peter, I'm going to do something," Neal began in that mysterious tone Peter hated.

Every time he heard it, without fail, his partner was about to do something crazy and risky. Neal probably knew how much Peter hated that tone, and used it all too regularly.

"What are you going to do Neal?"

"The van is within my sights. I'm going to pursue it."

"Damnit Neal! You can't go off on your own like that! Wait for us to regroup, or you're going to get yourself killed!"

"Don't worry about it," Neal said dismissively. "When I find the girl, I'll make sure she gets back to you."

"NEAL! YOU—"

He pressed the mute button to drown out his partner's cries.

Without another word, Neal turned the keys in the ignition and started the car.

"Alright! We got a chase!" Alfred crowed. The con man started in surprise. He'd forgotten about the teen's presence.

"No Alfred, _I_ have a chase." Neal corrected.

"Nu-uh!" He protested. "I wanna help!"

"Sorry Alfred." The con man stood suddenly, and just as Alfred read his intent, Neal had already opened the door to the van and pushed Alfred outside. "Make sure to find Peter, alright?"

Neal didn't wait to hear the shouts of outrage, instead he leapt into the driver's seat and put his foot on the gas before Alfred could push his way back onto the van. He sped away furiously.

The criminal had stopped the car after about ten blocks and seemed to be waiting for something. Neal pulled in shortly after, making sure to be as subtle as possible. The criminal stepped out of the van. The young girl's arm was held firmly, (and Neal would add, _painfully,)_ tight in his grip. The girl was obviously distressed but he hissed something to her that made the girl nod and follow after him with no struggling as he walked into a nearby alley.

Neal shot out of his seat, quickly pulling checking to see if he still had his gun on his holster. If he played his cards right, he could maybe get out of this with the girl safe, and his health intact.

The ex-con quickly moved to the alley until he saw the man and girl in one of the back-sections. He took a deep breath. Neal then held his hands up and walked forward, shoving himself into the line of fire. The criminal cussed loudly at the sudden appearance of another man.

"Stay where you are!" The criminal shouted.

"I'm unarmed," Neal returned, still slowly walking towards the guy, "I want to propose a trade."

"A trade?" The guy asked, his eyebrows raised.

"Yes, a trade of hostages."

"You want the girl?" The perpetrator queried.

"Me for the girl," Neal said boldly.

The other man let out a harsh laugh. "Why the hell would I trade with you?"

"I'm worth a lot more to the government than that child is," Neal told him.

"What's your name?" He spoke at length.

"Neal Caffery," Neal responded coolly.

Suddenly, the guy started laughing. A boisterous and hearty sound.

"Oh God, I've heard of you," the criminal said once he'd calmed down. "You're the FBI's little dog, aren't you?"

Neal hesitated. The criminal already knew about Neal at the very least. Whether he heard this from whispers around the underground or if he had been previously informed . . . Neal didn't have time to contemplate.

"I have a sort of forced association with the White Collar unit, if that's what you mean."

"Mmm, I'm surprised they let you off of your leash little bitch," He said sarcastically.

Neal ignored the words. Though the fact that the criminal had previous knowledge of him was disconcerting, perhaps it could work to his advantage. After all, the criminal would never suspect that the FBI had given him a gun, (even if it only had rubber bullets.) The gun was strapped to his ankle instead of his hip like most guns, so the chance of him finding something was small even I the guy decided to check.

"You know, I think I'll take you up on your offer," The criminal said. The smile on his face was too wide for Neal's preferences. Neal had been hoping a switch of hostages would unsettle him, but he had no luck; if anything, the criminal seemed more excited now.

"If you do anything, then I swear, you'll be on the floor like the other agent," he threatened, "I can promise you that."

Neal nodded solemnly. He walked towards the guy. When he got within arm's reach, the man's right hand shot out and gripped Neal's hair tightly, forcing him close to the criminal.

Neal ignored the stinging pain. He glared at the criminal before turning his attention to the little girl who was then released. She fell backwards onto the ground where she sat and wailed for a few moments. Neal pulled her up carefully.

"You alright?" He asked her softly. Her eyes were wide and watering, she didn't reply, and Neal didn't blame her. "What's your name sweetie?"

"S-S-Sammie," She stuttered.

"Alright Sammie, my name's Neal." He smiled as he gently pushed his smartphone into her palm. "I want you to get out of here. Take my phone and call 911. Can you do that?"

She nodded, still crying. Her grip was tight around the phone.

"Alright, go," He urged, "Go now."

"Th-th-thanks," She uttered before stumbling away. Though she tripped a few times, she made it out the alleyway. Neal exhaled in relief as she vanished from his sight. He hated it when the bad guys kidnapped little children. It was just poor taste.

"Since I was so kind when I didn't have to be, you are going to behave like the best captive ever," The criminal gripped his hair tighter and pulled Neal closer, "Is that clear?"

"Crystal," Neal muttered in reply.

"Disobey and I'll shoot you."

Typical threats. Neal had really gotten used to them by this point.

Now he had to figure out a way of getting out of here.

* * *

><p>Alfred watched the criminal jump backward, gun still pressed to the girl's head. Without a word, the target began running, dragging Sammie Adams along with him. In an instant, Alfred assessed the situation, reading the criminals mind quickly and grasping his goals. He admitted that he was surprised by what he found there. For some reason the kidnapper was attempting to lure the federal agents after him. Probably a trap for them then. Alfred didn't think he could let them wander in there. But what could he do? He wanted to shout out something loud and ridiculous about how it was obviously a trap— how he'd seen this episode last week, and it was certainly a trap. Peter and Neal couldn't go after them because it had been planned. He held his tongue though. The fact the child was in the other man's hands assured that pursuit would happen. It would only be seconds until Peter and the rest shot after the criminal.<p>

His eyes glanced to the side as Neal spoke to Peter. A little flare of pride grew in his chest as he felt the selflessness of his citizen. Perhaps it was because he was relishing the feeling that he didn't realize Neal's intention to leave him behind until he was forced out of the van and Neal drove away.

Despite the swirling negative emotions, Alfred forced a smile to the front of his face. They would get out of this.

"FLASH DUN AH-OH!" He jumped forward, dashing to the bike rental and pulling out his credit card. He hummed to himself the entire time. The moment the bicycle was free, he was swinging his leg over before he began pushing the pedals frantically. "PROTECTOR OF THE UNIVERSE!"

"A hero's gotta do what he's gotta do!" Alfred shouted to himself, half his words lost in the wind as he pumped his legs frantically.

And his duty as a hero, without question, was to protect his people.

He entered the busy streets, following the feel of his citizens. He would make it in time.

* * *

><p>Neal grunted in pain as his hair was pulled painfully. The guy had a real knack for doing things in the most painful way possible.<p>

The artist tried to ignore the pain in his head, and instead tried to surreptitiously check to see if his "gun" was still strapped to his ankle. The slight chafing informed him it was. The rubber bullets were still in his vest pocket. He could do this.

The criminal had made a serious mistake when he had assumed that Neal would be unarmed just because he was a ward of the federal government. The guy clearly had done his homework, but perhaps that's where he went wrong. His 'educated' assumptions would be his downfall.

The criminal threw Neal to the ground harshly.

Neal gritted his teeth to avoid making a sound at the pain he felt from the rough treatment. The criminal kept his gun pointed at Neal the entire exchange, making it impossible for Neal to act conspicuously. A good thing he was well trained in the opposite.

Feigning surrender, Neal slowly slid his hands lower, slipping one into his pocket and grabbing a single rubber bullet and nestling it between his fingers and then raising his hands. From the distance the other man stood at, he wouldn't be able to see the clear bullet between Neal's fingers— That was the hopeful working theory in any case.

"Shut the fuck up and stay there," the man ordered sharply, the gun remained aimed at Neal's face. With his other hand, the criminal began digging through his pocket for his cell. Within moments, the phone was dialing.

Neal listened with keen ears as the other line picked up.

"_Hello?"_

Neal heard the voice on the phone very faintly. The alley was thankfully rather silent, and the walls helped echo the sound.

The criminal replied, "Yeah, I did what you asked. You were right about the agents."

"_And?"_

"I caught one of them! He's my hostage right now," the man said proudly.

Neal exhaled in surprise. So they knew about them, like he suspected. What that meant in the grand scheme of things, Neal didn't know.

Neal's brow furrowed. '_What does he mean? Do they know about Peter and mine's relation to Alfred? Does it have something to do with the painting and the Russians?' _He thought to himself.

"_Hmmm," _The voice drawled, "_I suppose that should work. If __**he's**__ anything like I know __**he**__ is, then he'll be here any time now to save your hostage."_

Neal frowned at the sound of that. _'Are they talking about Peter?'_ He bit his lip. This didn't sound good at all. Clearly he and Peter were unknowingly involved in something bigger than they were, (as usual.) He needed to get his gun out soon and turn to tables around. He slowly sat up, making sure to keep his hands raised, despite the ache in his arms.

"Hey, I told you to not fucking move!" The man shouted, jabbing the gun towards Neal threateningly.

"I was getting sore," Neal replied in a smooth tone. "Besides, this suit is expensive, I don't want it any dirtier than it has to be." His voice was calm despite the raging adrenaline that filled his body. His persona either amused his captors, or pissed them off beyond belief. He winced. From the puce color the gun-wielding man's face was turning, he'd have to place him under the latter category.

A low chuckling came from the speaker of the phone, and the other man's fury faltered.

"_What an entertaining character we have before us. I'm going to assume the one you captured was Neal Caffery, wasn't it?"_

"Yeah, it was," The other man replied, looking off-put by the voice's reaction, "We don't really need the thief anymore, do we? I mean, he's already coming, right? Can I just finish this guy off?"

The former con-man's heart skipped a beat and fear flooded his system.

"_Absolutely not! Have you forgotten the rest of the plan?"_

"Er, well, no," the criminal was backpedaling. Neal exhaled silently in relief. It seemed that for the moment he was safe. Though, he did have to wonder what their future plans entailed.

"_Good!"_ The voice on the phone growled, "_Besides that, getting that guy angry is the last thing I would want to do on this earth. Nothing could save you from his fury."_

"Seriously?" The criminal asked in blatant surprise.

"_That person— no, that __**thing**__, is beyond human."_

Okay, now Neal was confused again. Was the other guy really that afraid of Peter? Neal would have to be sure and tell Peter what was said about him when he was safe again; the captive had a feeling the older fed would get a kick out of it.

"Okay, I'll wait until he arrives before we start the next part," the criminal said slowly.

"_Very good. Now then, the rest are closing in on you now, they will be there soon. Don't fail me."_

Then the voice cut off, leaving a dial tone behind.

Neal's stomach sank as he heard those words confirming an impending appointment of ill content. He needed to act now! But the gun was still hovering over his head, it was too dangerous.

He needed a distraction, something to give him enough time to reach his ankle holster.

As if waiting for the most opportune moment, Alfred came sprinting into the room, breaking the criminal's concentration. Quick as lightning, Neal's hands flew to his gun. He unclipped it and hastily loaded the single bullet into the barrel.

He aimed the gun at the other man's head as he rose to his feet. Never had he been so grateful to have spent hours practicing rapid hand movements for pickpocketing in his life.

"I suggest you put that down," Neal said with a tense grin. His eyes flickered towards Alfred. What was he doing here? And where was Peter? The questions ran around in Neal's mind but he couldn't afford to pay them too much attention.

The criminal's eyes widened and Neal could see the cogs turning. Slowly, the other man's hand lowered from Neal's head. But instead of falling to the side, instead, the end of his barrel pointed towards the golden haired teen.

"I don't think I will." The criminal's smile grew wide as he saw the hesitation in Neal's eyes. Neal was cursing inwardly. He should have been more careful. This wasn't like the movies where just because both sides had guns that meant that one surrendered. No, this was messy life, and a game of life-or-death chicken.

"Do you think you can shoot me faster than I can shoot him?" The criminal asked, his smirk cruel.

Neal glanced towards Alfred to see how he was holding up. The teen's ashen state did nothing for Neal's confidence. '_Just keep it together for a little longer Alfred, Peter is on the way_.' He willed his thoughts to reach the teen. In the meanwhile, his eyes flashed towards the man across from him.

He had really been hoping to intimidate the criminal, but he realized that the man had nerves of steel. His only edge, his element of surprise, was lost. He was on the bad end of the stick. If he held out against the criminal and the criminal decided to shoot Alfred, Neal's only hope would be to shoot the criminal first— But the bullets Neal had were only rubber. They wouldn't do enough damage to put the man out of commission, they wouldn't kill the man. Perhaps they would startle him enough that the real bullet the criminal shot missed, but he would have the ability to shoot again probably and Neal would be out of bullets. Maybe he could tackle the man, regaining the element of surprise, but could he wager Alfred's life on that chance?

He didn't think so.

"Look," Neal began, sounding far calmer than he looked, "We're both capable of dealing with things in a civilized manner— why don't you and I make a deal?"

"A deal?" The criminal looked amused, "What kind of deal?"

"I don't particularly want Alfred to get shot, nor do I want to be forced to kill you. You're much more valuable to me alive, you know," Neal spoke smoothly, "So, why don't we make an agreement? I will put my gun down, and in exchange, you won't shoot, or harm Alfred, sound fair?"

"Oh?" Criminal snorted, "And then what?"

"Then you have two hostages— just one that you can't shoot," Neal said, "You can continue with whatever plan you've been working on, and we'll behave." From what Neal had heard, Neal would be kept alive until Peter arrived. If he could get the criminal to keep Alfred alive too, then it would buy all of them some time to think their way out of this situation. He was just indescribably thankful that the criminal didn't know his bullets weren't real.

He could see the criminal begin mulling this over. Neal bit the inside of his mouth to avoid showing how much anxiety he was feeling.

"Alright," The criminal said at length. He turned his gun away from Alfred and back at Neal. "Place the gun on the floor."

Neal exhaled inwardly in relief and slowly did as the criminal said. Both of them were okay for now. If only Peter could get where they were faster.

That would—

"Thank you very much," the criminal said, "But now it's time to say goodnight."

That was all the warning Neal had before the butt of the gun cracked the back of his skull, sending his mind into the black nothingness of unconsciousness.

* * *

><p>"Neal."<p>

The conman grunted. The first thing he was aware of was the pain in his skull. The loud buzz that surrounded him didn't help his pain in the slightest.

"Neal!" The voice spoke more urgently.

Unhappily, Neal opened them.

He found himself lying on a gurney. The ceiling was unfamiliar and metal. Glancing around he noticed medical equipment, and slowly his brain put the pieces together.

"Am I in an ambulance?"

"Yeah."

Looking left, he noticed a weary looking Peter was the one addressing him.

"Peter," He said blankly for a moment, trying to recall what had led to him being in an ambulance, "What happened?" He asked eventually.

"Do you remember anything?"

Neal cast his mind back, groping through the pain to find the answers. His eyes widened in remembrance.

"Alfred!" Neal shot up in his bed, making his world tilt around him unsteadily. He had to bite back the nausea.

"Don't move so fast," Peter scolded lightly, readjusting the younger man's pillows.

"Alfred, he was in the alley, and then that criminal— Is he okay?"

The stony, unhappy expression on Peter's face was not what Neal wanted to see.

"He's—" Neal's voice broke, and he felt terror swell in his stomach.

"No," Peter assured him quickly, "He isn't . . . dead."

Neal was oddly glad that he wasn't the only one who had a hard time saying a sentence like that.

"At least," Peter continued, "We don't think so anyways."

"Explain," Neal said shortly.

"Mr. Jones was taken."

Neal's eyes shot towards the entrance of the ambulance where he found Alex, Alfred's large bodyguard.

"Taken?" Neal asked, stunned.

"Yes. He has been kidnapped." Alex spoke stoically, in full business mode. "We believe that it was the goal of the perpetrator from the beginning. The set-up would have needed to be very . . . _elaborate_ to capture someone like Mr. Jones," Alex explained, "Such a feat is very difficult I assure you."

"What do you mean?" Peter asked, showing his confusion.

The bodyguard said nothing in reply; instead he asked a question of his own. "Mr. Caffery, what do you remember from the event?"

"It was a set-up," he spoke hurriedly, "They knew it was us! The fencer, the reason why he had so many sightings was because he was waiting for us. He wanted us to come to him, and then—" His breath was getting short.

"Slow down." Peter's brow furrowed. He didn't like how upset Neal was getting.

"Start at the beginning, Mr. Caffery," Alex said, ever professional. "What happened after you left the park?"

"I—" He stopped his sentence as he tried to recall everything that happened. "I tossed Alfred out of the van and then followed the guy. He was supposed to find you Peter, but I should have known better." Neal sucked in a harsh breath before exhaling and continuing. "I caught the guy going into an alley and followed. I convinced a trade, me for the girl. The perp called someone on the phone."

"Did he say anything worth mentioning?" Alex asked insistently.

"It was quiet enough that I could hear both sides of the conversation. They were definitely setting a trap for someone and I was to be the bait. I assumed it was for you Peter," Neal said, turning his eyes to his partner, "Because the person on the phone kept mentioning how they were waiting for someone to arrive and the guy seemed genuinely afraid. You're getting famous."

Peter gave a grim smile which Neal weakly returned.

Alex's dark eyes narrowed at what he heard, but he remained silent.

"I had my pistol on my ankle, so I was trying to find a way to access it so I could bluff my way out of the situation, but the guy was attentive. It wasn't until Alfred came plowing in that I was able to get my gun out and aimed at the other guy."

"Then what?" Peter queried

Neal sighed miserably. "Then, he pointed his gun at Alfred instead."

"Agh!" Peter groaned, "That's a rookie mistake Neal! The absolute first thing you do is disarm the other person."

"I tried!" Neal snapped back. "He was fast."

"Enough," Alex cut in shortly, "What happened next?"

Neal took a deep breath before beginning again. "Well, I knew that my first priority was to make sure Alfred and I stayed alive. As the situation stood, it seemed likely that one of us was going to get shot. I couldn't kill him with rubber bullets. The chance of him shooting Alfred was too high, so I tried negotiating with him."

"How?" Peter asked, his eyes shrew.

"I told him that I really had no desire to kill him, and I didn't want to see Alfred dead either. In exchange for Alfred's safety I would put my gun down."

Peter was fuming. "You willingly unarmed yourself like that?!"

"I didn't have a choice!" Neal replied shortly, "I meant to buy time until you got to us."

"It was a wise decision," Alex murmured from the side, "Any action to keep Mr. Jones alive and safe from harm is the correct one." He stated the fact simply.

"Alright," Peter sighed, "Now we need to figure out what to do next."

"I was wondering, do you think it was the Russians?" Neal asked, "I know that they wanted to eliminate him because he would authorize the painting but—"

"That is a possibility, though at this point somewhat unlikely." Alex was quick to cut them off.

"What do you mean?"

"I am not at liberty to share that information," Alex replied stiffly. "It's confidential."

Peter was about to pull out his hair. "You've got to be kidding me! We're a part of this case, surely we deserve the details. He was our charge!"

"Do not behave as though you are so entitled," Alex replied coldly. The con man recognized that they wouldn't be getting anything out of the bodyguard without significant wheedling. They didn't have the time to waste. Instead, Neal pushed forward, trying to ignore the throbbing of his bruised skull.

"Well what are we supposed to do? Do we have any leads?" Neal asked before Peter could voice his frustrations.

"Right now, I need to make some calls. We will begin working on reacquiring Mr. Jones tomorrow. For now, you need to recover— Tomorrow will be very difficult. I will not tolerate anything less than your best as we find Mr. Jones."

With those words, Alex turned on his feet and began walking away.

Neal watched him go, feeling listless.

"How's Dianne?" He asked slowly.

"She's fine. They don't think the leg muscle was damaged too badly so hopefully she'll be back on her feet in a couple months," Peter said.

"That's good," Neal murmured, distantly.

"Hey," Peter said, his tone marginally softer. "Are you okay?"

"Aside from letting a nineteen-year-old get kidnapped you mean?" Neal asked sarcastically, "I'm peachy."

"Look Neal, if I was in your situation I probably would have done the same. If it was anyone's fault then it was mine," Peter said comfortingly. "If I had just been faster, then you wouldn't have even had to make a decision like that."

When Neal looked ready to protest, Peter cut him off.

"Let's follow Alex's advice, eh?" Peter suggested. "Tomorrow we find Alfred, so you need to be in top form. Let's find an EMT to give you the go-ahead and we'll get you back home."

Neal reluctantly agreed. With his head throbbing like it was, he wouldn't be much use. He steeled his resolve and tried to focus on tomorrow.

He had to believe they could get Alfred back.

Because if not—

Neal couldn't afford to entertain that train of thought; he'd already lost too many people. He would not lose another.

* * *

><p>The Latino bodyguard walked until he was fairly far away from the scurrying FBI agents taking pictures of the scene and analyzing the area, he pulled out his phone.<p>

This was one call he was loathing.

Perhaps he could have asked Mr. Williams to do it . . . But he couldn't.

This was his burden for not ensuring the safety of his charge.

He deserved whatever he got.

Bracing himself, he dialed the overseas number.

* * *

><p>Sunlight filtered through the lace curtains and into the home office of Sir Arthur Kirkland, human embodiment of the United Kingdom. The bright afternoon sun had reached its peak and would soon begin its descent. Another day come and gone. He leaned back in his office chair after he signed another paper with his flourished signature.<p>

England couldn't find it in himself to be too upset for the day to be winding down. The paperwork was killing him. One would think that after decades of doing paperwork, England would have gotten used to the monotony and the mind-numbing legal jargon that accompanied it.

This was not the case. In fact, it seemed that the more time passed, the more unbearable it became. The situations grew lengthier and the legal systems evolved into complex and tricky spider webs. He was sick of it.

The island country longed for an era where he was free to prowl the world in naught more than his ship.

Back to an age where country borders were more like suggestions and there was no one to monitor who came and went.

Those were the days. He sighed wistfully.

He smiled lightly, well, he supposed it wasn't all bad. At least now he could make his scones and enjoy a good cup whenever he wished. (Something he rarely was able to do at his leisure when he was on a pirate ship.)

Speaking of, he imagined it to be that time.

"Ellen, I wonder if you could fetch me a cup of tea," England called into the hallway.

Upon his call, a woman of around thirty came into the room balancing a tray of tea.

"I'm ahead of you sir," She smiled as she set the tray down on a nearby coffee table, "I had a feeling you would want to break for afternoon tea soon."

"Quite correct, as usual," England commented, pleased by her efficient service. He stood and stretched before making his way towards the sitting area and seating himself on a large leather couch.

"Today we have some cinnamon scones with jam and clotted cream, a small cherry Bakewell cake and a few cucumber sandwiches." She placed the various dishes on the table before she set about pouring a cup of tea.

"Thank you, this is lovely." England sighed as he relaxed. Nothing was quite like afternoon tea.

"Oh!"

At the sound of surprise, his eyes flipped towards the startled servant.

"What is it?" He inquired.

"Nothing really, but I'm afraid your preferred cup has a small crack in it," She informed him, holding out the cup for inspection.

He frowned, taking the delicately painted teacup into his hands for inspection. Sure enough, there was a small crack along the lip.

"After so many years, I suppose it is bound to happen." He resisted the urge to frown. It was rather a favorite of his. A gift from her late majesty, Queen Victoria. There were still several remaining in the set though, he supposed.

"It will be fine for today, there is no need to get another Ellen, but afterwards, perhaps it should be tossed."

She nodded in understanding, "Yes Sir." She then proceeded to pour him a cup.

"I'll add the sugar myself," England said, "You are excused, thank you."

"Of course Sir." Ellen withdrew from the room, quietly closing the doors behind her, leaving England alone in the room with his tea.

The country picked up a scone and began adding jam to it. His thoughts strayed to something he'd heard many years ago from Japan.

According to the Asian country, cracked tea-cups were a bed omen. A disconcerted feeling spread through his body like a winter's chill. He shook his head and scoffed lightly at his idle thoughts.

"Not bloody likely." He took a bite of the scone, relishing the familiar treat.

Suddenly, his mobile rang, a most irritating song, reserved for area codes from a particular part of the world.

" _Don't wanna be an American idiot.  
>Don't want a nation under the new mania<br>And can you hear the sound of hysteria?  
>The subliminal—<em>"

He smiled lightly at the sound. He placed the scone down and retrieved his mobile from his pocket before answering.

"Hello?"

"_Mr. Kirkland?"_

England frowned. He was rather hoping it was America calling. Nothing took his mind off work quite like the irritating man.

"Yes, this is he speaking. How may I help you today?" He replied while adding a couple sugar cubes to his earl grey tea.

"_This is Alex Rodriguez, I work for Mr. Jones."_

"Ah, and how is Alfred? Still a handful I imagine," England mused more to himself than to Alex as he stirred his tea. He quite liked America's most recent bodyguard.

"_I'm afraid that is rather the point of this call."_ The man seemed to hesitate, making England frown.

"What has that twit done now? Please tell me he didn't try to move a McDonald's into the White House again." England rolled his eyes as he took a sip of tea.

"_No, nothing like that."_ The voice was silent for a time. The pause irritated England. His very sparse free time was being cut into.

"Come out with it, what has he done? It can't have been too terr—"

"_Mr. Jones has been kidnapped by unknown assailants."_

The fact that the powerful country had just been cut off didn't register in his mind. The teacup slipped from England's hand, landing on the coffee table and shattering into small ceramic shards. The tea sloshed all over the table, falling off the edge and seeping into the carpet. Ellen ran into the room after hearing the sound and asked after him concernedly.

England heard none of it. His mind was blank.

No. That was impossible. America was too strong. It couldn't have been . . . the only way something that impossible could have happened was if—

"_We are working at several angles at the moment, and I have much faith that he will be rescued soon. I don't mean to concern you, I just thought I should let you know—"_

"Ellen, arrange my jet for departure. I'm going to America's," He ordered shortly. The woman jumped before acquiescing and scurrying out of the room, "I will be at the New York airport in approximately eight hours. Until then, you are going to tell me everything that happened. Don't leave a single detail out."

England knew his tone was fierce and harsh, but he didn't care.

"_. . . Very well Sir," _ Alex began slowly, "_It began today when Mr. Jones accompanied his handlers on a case . . ."_

England glanced towards the remnants of the teacup.

'_I'll be there soon America,' _England thought to himself,_ 'I promise!'_

* * *

><p><strong>:}<strong>

**Thank you for bearing all the misspells and grammatical errors. Lol, please ignore my loose logic, it's a little floaty this chapter.**

**More ACE next chapter!~ **

**RE**_view?_


	19. A Day full of Questions and Brothers

A/n Looky here! I'm back! Thanks for all the AWESOME reviews. I feel like we're gonna push it to 600 soon~

Happy birthday to _astrophilic _and _Taekwondoasskicking, _and despite it being the latter's birthday, they wrote _me_ an omake! Speaking of . . .

**WARNING! DO NOT BE DECEIVED BY THE SCROLL BAR. THERE IS AN OMAKE! The story ends before that!**

I've been misled many times . . .

This is my shortest chapter to date, 6,700 words ish. Sorry about the length.

Totes unbeta-ed.

**Disclaimer:** Look in previous chapters.

* * *

><p>Chapter 19: A Day full of Questions and Brothers<p>

* * *

><p><em>"I am an ally of the United States. We believe the same things, we believe passionately in the same battle of ideas, we will defend them to the hilt. Never try to separate me from them."<em>

_~Margaret Thatcher~_

* * *

><p>Neal and Peter drove to the Bureau's main office in complete silence. The mood at the apartment had been morose. Neither felt capable of summing up paltry words to fill the silence. Not while their charge was likely in danger. Peter stopped for coffee, which he and Neal both drank out of necessity, not pleasure. Both were wrapped up by feelings of frustration and self-disgust at their poor protection of their charge. Despite that, Neal and Peter each realized that there wasn't time for that, because this wasn't about them, it was about <em>Alfred. <em>By the time the pair arrived at the front door, their minds were honed to the task set before them.

Peter knew that the office would be hectic. He had a feeling that their supervisor, Hughes, would be assigning many more agents to the case in order to help, and that he himself would probably have to be the lead agent and organize the mess. Despite that, he couldn't have prepared for the absolute circus that awaited him.

People were running through the office, carrying various folders and papers, all with an air of tense urgency only seen in times of true crises. At the top of the beehive of activity was Alex, who stood in the glass conference room. Ten other agents were in the room with him, including Hughes, pouring over the papers on the table. It was clear where they needed to go. Neal and Peter wordlessly ascended the staircase and entered the conference room.

Both were a little shocked at the solemnity and hurry the matter was being dealt with. This was (sadly,) not the first kidnapping that had happened involving one of their cases. It had never been one of their charges though, and never involved a dozen-plus agents.

Neal was surprised to see Mathieu and his bodyguard amongst the congregation. The teenager looked harried. He hadn't joined Neal and Peter at their home so they realized he probably spent the night in a hotel. The other two respected and understood his desire for privacy considering the situation. No doubt he had been trying to avoid the room he shared with Alfred— the room that was painfully lacking one cheerful resident. Neal had assumed that due to his relation, the Canadian would be banned from the case. (Not to mention his obvious nationality.) It appeared that wasn't so, because he was seated right next to Alex, whispering to him something private. Liam, Mathieu's bodyguard, stood behind his charge, ever stoic.

"Moring Burke, Caffery," Hughes nodded to the two in greeting.

"Good morning sir," Peter returned before turning his eyes to the papers spread over the table. "What do we have?"

"A lot of loose ends, but nothing concrete to follow," Hughes grunted.

"Are we considering the Russians?" Neal asked. He resolved to leaning over the table.

Agent Clinton answered the question, "Yes, though nothing has come up yet. The movements of nearby factions haven't led us to think they're involved. We're keeping an eye out."

From the corner of his eye, Neal could make out Mathieu and Alex's frowns.

"I have to ask, what are you doing here Mathieu?" Peter asked as tactfully as he could.

"I'm aiding in the investigation," Mathieu answered plainly, as though it were obvious.

"I understand that, but what I mean is surely you're too close to this case."

"Mr. Williams has been granted leave to assist us by the higher-ups," Alex cut in, "We believe his insight may help us."

Peter's eyes still narrowed. He hated to think it, but it wasn't entirely certain that Mathieu had nothing to do with Alfred's kidnapping. The kid could have easily found out where they were going. He might have faked going to work and followed them instead. With Liam's assistance, there was no telling what the possibilities were. Mathieu seemed to be poised the perfect place to strike.

"Rest assured," Alex said, as though reading his mind, "Mr. Williams is innocent of this crime."

Peter wanted to snap back childishly and know _how _exactly he could say that with such certainty.

"If I wanted Alfred out of the way, I would have done such a long time ago," Mathieu said honestly and bluntly, startling Neal and Peter.

In addition, Mathieu knew that he couldn't afford it if something bad happened to Alfred. Their economies were too close. America and he had one of the largest most comprehensive trade relationships in the world. His people were as dependent on the safe return of Alfred as the Americans were. In fact, if it weren't for the tight lockdown on the situation, he was certain that other countries would have arrived to offer their aid. The global economy was tricky business. Having said that, there were some countries that would have taken advantage of the situation.

Mathieu never would. It wasn't just because of his dependency, but also his brotherhood. They were countries, but they were also people, and as such they were capable of love. Mathieu loved his twin. Despite his occasional arrogance, and regular gift for being annoying, Alfred remained precious to the Canadian. He wanted him alive and well, and so, he would do what he could to ensure the safe return of his sibling.

"Alright, then where do we start looking?" Peter asked, deciding to move forward.

"We're waiting for more information to come in," Hughes said, rubbing his forehead, "The CIA and NSA are both pushing paperwork as fast as they can to get us more information on which criminals are operating right now."

Neal's eyebrow's raised in surprise. The lengths that had been gone for Alfred were mind-boggling . . . and also hard to understand. Alfred seemed valuable, but could a mere nineteen-year-old be _that_ valuable? Art was important, and as such, Alfred's value was clear, but surely this issue that could be solved without the heavy involvement of two other branches. Once more, his mind drifted to the countless impossibilities.

He did have to consider that the kidnapping had to do with Alfred's relation to the president. Peter and he had read the loose paperwork that was floating about the teen's room. It was clear he was dealing with matters above a typical temp's workload, but how high was he? Neal remembered how shocked he had been to learn that Alfred worked so directly for the president. Truthfully, Neal recognized that he knew a great deal more than the average American, (he had his nose poked in a lot of business that wasn't necessarily his.) He made it his duty to know. Despite how much he knew about the current status of things, he knew absolutely _nothing _about Alfred. The teen was ridiculously tight-lipped for being such a blabbermouth. Not that he hadn't tried to get the information by _other, _more dubious means. Neal turned up nothing. There was secrecy in Alfred's existence —his information, (even the most basic,) required clearance to read.

Still, the idea that a teenager like _Alfred _had such a serious, high-ranking position was tough to swallow. In fact, Neal still had trouble believing him. Though the turnout at his kidnapping did indeed suggest that there was more than met the eye.

"But there's nothing solid to work on right now?" Peter asked, frustration filling his voice.

"Ah, Alex and I have a working theory," Mathieu put forth quietly.

"What is it?" Hughes asked, "Let's hear it."

Mathieu shook his head lightly, "We're waiting for another party to confirm it before discussing the possibility."

"And how long will that take I wonder," Peter muttered rhetorically. The situation frustrated him so much. Bureaucracy was a nightmare.

There was a tense pause as they waited for an appearance of an unknown person, or a phone call. It was then that Neal noticed with surprise that Mathieu had exchanged the suit he was wearing yesterday for a rather stylish ensemble of dark jeans, a plaid navy blue fleece toggle jacket with a solid blue hood, and a grey Henley shirt over a white undershirt. He had a rather thick looking grey beanie on over his ash blonde hair. Unlike his very impressive clothing, he himself looked tired, especially with the dark circles below his eyes.

"Those are some nice clothes, Matthew," Neal noted. The other agents including Peter were discussing matters including the NSA and when they could expect the information to come through, etc, etc. It was clear to him that until Mathieu received whatever info he was expecting, that nothing substantial would be accomplished. With that in mind, Neal would much rather do what little he could to try and ease the exhausted looking teen.

"Huh?" Mathieu looked down as though he didn't know what he was wearing. "Yeah, I guess so . . ."

"You left your suitcase at our house, we were worried you wouldn't be able to find something to wear."

Of course neither he nor Peter had expected to see the teen the next day. They figured that the Canadian would drop by when he needed to gather his stuff. Such was apparently not the case.

"The designers at the fashion show were very generous. They let me bring an outfit back." His tone was muted and distant. Neal stared, stunned and jealous, before shaking his head at the sky.

"Of course . . ." Neal didn't even bother questioning the matter. Anything involving Alfred or those around him was bound to be ridiculous. Instead he asked, "Aren't you hot though?"

"I really couldn't complain about the clothes they gave me, it was a fall fashion show. I admit that I wasn't expecting to wear them so soon. The heat rarely bothers me. I keep pretty cool," Mathieu replied with a slight hint of a smile.

Any conversation was stopped when Alex stood from his seat suddenly, his gaze trained on the lobby. "He's here."

The other agents followed his gaze. A young man in his twenties wearing a smart grey suit with pale yellow hair was walking determinedly through the area. He made eye contact with Mathieu before going up the stairs and entering the room. Behind him, a red-haired man in an official-looking black suit trailed after.

The former of the pair scanned the area, assessing things in a way that was familiar. Up close, Neal and Peter could now see the individual features of the first, blonde man, including his very pale skin, large eyebrows and sparkling green eyes. The man glanced around the room with a shrew expression, eyeing every one of them, his eyes lingered on Neal and Peter for longer than the others before he walked over to Mathieu.

"Hello Matthew, Alex," he greeted with a lilting British accent.

"Hello Sir Kirkland," Alex replied.

"Hi Arthur," Mathieu said, looking rather relieved at the arrival of the British male.

The new man pivoted and turned to address the majority, "Good morning, my name is Sir Arthur Kirkland and I am here to help you locate Alfred F. Jones."

Silence greeted his declaration, as the gathering tried to figure how to respond and who should start the rest of the introductions. The red-haired man beside Arthur cleared his throat, breaking up the awkwardness.

"And I am Luke Scott, the man with two first names. Don't mind me," He said with a joking tone and an honest smile at their inquisitive glances. If the circumstances were different, it might have warranted a laugh, for now it just set things in an off-key silence.

"Hello Mr. K—" Hughes cleared his throat, " . . . Sir Kirkland, Mr. Scott. My name is Special Agent Hughes, and I am the senior supervisor of this office. I think that considering the circumstances, the rest of the introductions can wait," He said seriously.

"Indeed. I hope you have found something of import."

"Not quite." Hughes' voice was blatantly displeased. "Matthew implied that perhaps you had some information that would help."

"Perhaps," Arthur replied vaguely.

The distinctive accent was the first clue that struck Neal. After a few moments, the name registered as well.

"Aren't you Alfred's brother?" Neal asked, his forehead furrowed. Peter's head snapped to his partner's at the words. Everyone who had become acquainted with Alfred during his stay looked towards Arthur with new curiosity. Neal himself failed to see the connection between the two, both in their looks and temperaments. Realizing that this also meant Arthur had a relation with Mathieu did little to clear things up. Then again, Mathieu and Alfred were rather different themselves.

Arthur raised an eyebrow, turning to the reformed thief. "Indeed I am his older brother, _Neal Caffery_."

The emphasis on his name did not go unnoticed, and Neal bristled. Peter subtly moved closer to Neal, also having caught the tone used on his partner's name, and the insinuation that went along with it. Both were once more confronted by the fact that all of Alfred's friends seemed to know exactly who Neal was, as well as harboring some conflicting feelings on the matter. It was just . . . odd. Why should Arthur care if Neal had an extensive collection of British art? The situation was identical to Mathieu's, and even, if he recalled, like Francis.' It was surreal to Neal. Bordering a conspiracy theory . . . He was going crazy. Still, he had to ask himself where the similarities between all of the situations ended.

"You wouldn't happen to work for the British government, now would you, Sir Kirkland?" Peter asked, clearly on the same wavelength as Neal.

Now it was the British man's turn to narrow his gaze. It automatically confirmed the suspicious simmering in the back of Peter and Neal's minds.

The two partners exchanged glances. Yet again it was a similar set up. A young person in possession of knowledge generally known by people in higher positions working for the government with a bodyguard of their own . . . It was becoming too common a theme for them to ignore.

"Do you know who I am?" Arthur asked softly, his eyes sharply trained on the two. He took a couple steps towards them and stared into their eyes, as though trying to read something.

Neal wanted to recoil from the intensity he felt radiating from the deep green eyes that had been set upon him.

When Arthur was uncomfortably close he stopped and leaned forward slightly, only a foot away. "Do you know _what _I am?" He asked so softly that the two could barely hear over the hum of the air conditioner.

"Arthur," Mathieu said, drawing the attention back towards him, "They don't know anything."

Just like that, the intensity had been cut. Arthur gave them one last disparaging look before walking back towards the head of the table to rejoin Mathieu, Liam and Luke. The two body guards standing behind their charges only drove the similar situations more seriously into their minds.

Neal was having a hard time reconciling this stiff, sharp man with the one Alfred had described on occasion. The light-weight drinker who had apparently dyed his hair green and gotten multiple piercings was so far off from what stood in front of him.

"And I can assume Sir Kirkland has also been given clearance to work on this case," Peter said with an edge of sarcasm, "Despite the apparent sensitivity in regards to National Security?"

"Burke!" Hughes snapped.

If Peter had been expecting to get a rise out of the British visitor, he was sorely mistaken.

Instead Arthur merely raised an eyebrow again, "That is quite correct. I may be the only one who can actually help around here." The surrounding agents bristled at the blatant brushoff— Neal and Peter especially.

"Arthur," Mathieu said softly.

"Aside from Matthew here," Arthur amended.

"That wasn't what I meant . . ." Mathieu's sentence trailed off into silence. Arthur paid it no mind.

"After going over what Alex told me, it seems that your suspicions were correct, Matthew," Arthur said, carrying on and solely addressing the teenager.

Mathieu inhaled sharply at the other man's words. "I-I was afraid of that."

"Afraid of what?" Hughes asked. He was ignored as Mathieu inhaled a sharp, distressed breath.

"I read about it, but I didn't think something like that could really happen. I mean, especially in this day and age." Mathieu placed his head in his hands and sighed heavily. Alex looked similarly pained. Luke and Liam exchanged glances, but they were more confused than knowing. The fact that they did not know didn't seem to bother them too terribly, not like it bothered Neal and Peter.

"I'm afraid it is so. I've thought about it, and I think I know how it could be done," Arthur informed the younger.

"Which means they are most likely aware of his . . . _status."_

"What are you talking about?!" Peter asked more forcefully. Arthur turned his eyes on him. "Can someone explain to me what's going on?"

"I don't believe you have the clearance," the British man said with a slightly derisive expression.

"_I_ don't have the clearance to retrieve _my_ charge?" Peter exclaimed.

"That is an accurate summation, Agent Burke." Arthur spoke dryly, looking utterly unimpressed.

"Then how do you expect us to help?" Neal wondered, voicing the question that was running through all the federal agents' minds.

"You want to help?" Arthur demanded, "Then please provide us with the necessary information. Don't dawdle here."

Peter's jaw began working furiously

Mathieu frowned heavily. The fierce glare and authoritative voice . . . They weren't dealing with Arthur at the moment; they were dealing with the forceful ghost of an Empire that once ruled the world.

"Arthur," Mathieu urged quietly.

"I need for you to give me a rundown of his entire day. How you get from point A to B, what he eats, everything, and I require it now! Give me a list of all the agents he interacted with regularly, and who would have known where he would be that day."

A few agents jumped and gathered some of their papers to get what Arthur was asking for.

"Arthur." Mathieu pressed more.

"And _you two._" Arthur turned back to Neal and Peter with cold fury in his eyes. "He was under your watch, tell me you were doing something this entire time." Arthur spoke bitingly.

"Arthur!" The Canadian country spoke sharply now as Arthur grew more out of control. His businesslike composure began slipping rapidly. He was angry. That much was entirely apparent to the agents still in the room. Peter took a deep breath. This was why they didn't allow people who were emotionally compromised to participate in these cases. It didn't show a sign of stopping anytime soon either.

"The standards of the federal programs here are becoming clear; being utterly, woefully, inept. How you people can call yourselves agents of the country both amazes and disgusts me! How you even _made it_ into this branch I will _never_—"

"**ARTHUR!**" The normally mild Canadian screamed. The sounds reverberated off the walls hollowly, silencing anything in their path. In the center of the room, Mathieu stood red-faced and panting in his upset.

The two countries had a sharp staring contest as the surrounding people watched in surprise and confusion at the heated exchange. Especially when regarding unusual behavior of well-known gentler boy.

"I need to speak to you for a moment in the hall," the Canadian man said, regaining his calm tone. "Alone."

With a flat look, the British man spun on his heels and exited the room into the empty hallways without a word.

Mathieu moved forward a little and saw Liam step with him.

"_Alone." _ The teen pressed, staring firmly at his bodyguard.

Liam shifted unhappily. "Sirs, this is a state of emergency, we must accompany you both. It wouldn't be prude—"

An unusual and extremely sharp look from Mathieu quickly ensured the bodyguards would not be joining them in their impromptu conference. Equally as silent and stoic, Mathieu followed Arthur, leaving a heavy and unpleasant atmosphere in his wake.

After a few moments of uncomfortable fidgeting, Agent Clinton Jones of the FBI finally exclaimed, "I don't see how he's related to Alfred at all!"

Those who had met the sunny nineteen-year-old murmured in agreement.

The American bodyguard rubbed his face tiredly. "Mr. Jones and Sir Kirkland's relationship is long and complex, and even I don't know the half of it," Alex continued, addressing the audience. "They are very close though. The two of them have been through a lot together. Perhaps it was because they fought and hurt each other so much that they are so close now . . ." The bodyguard trailed off pensively as he was once more swept up in thoughts about his charge. "Special truly is the only word that does it justice," the Latino man finished with a weary, though wry grin, one that Luke shared.

"Alfred said that Arthur raised him as a child," Neal noted mutedly. This fact garnered strange looks.

"He looks a bit young . . ." Peter said in a great understatement. "He must be a lot older than he looks."

This garnered a choked laugh from Luke, who quickly tried to change it into a cough and failed horribly. Alex sighed at his fellow bodyguard while Liam glared fiercely. The rest of the group exchanged confused looks as to why the English man was laughing in such a serious situation.

"Come now, you must admit that was rather funny," Luke said with a smile in response to Liam's reproachful gaze.

The Canadian bodyguard hissed in response. "That kind of behavior is entirely inappropriate for this kind of setting."

"Luke, this is neither the time nor place, and Liam, please keep yourself in check; you're making a show of yourself." Alex's reply shut the latter up quite cleanly.

The silence only held for a few minutes at most.

"Well, how old is he?" Agent Hughes asked impatiently.

His question sent Luke spiraling into giggles once more and Alex began shaking his head.

* * *

><p>The hallway was empty as well as large. The clean white walls, clear glass that looked out into the vast city of New York, and stark artificial lights sent the vaguest waves that they were in a hospital instead of in the Federal building it was in reality. Canada and England stood across from each other with solemn expressions. England was the first to breach the silence.<p>

"Do keep this quick Matthew, I'm rather busy at the moment if you hadn't noticed." His blatantly tone dismissive.

"Arthur," Canada said sternly. "You need to calm down."

The Island country scoffed. "I am perfectly calm my lad."

"No you aren't. I haven't seen you this cold in a long time," Canada continued, "You can't take entire control of the situation. Let his citizen's help. They are competent people, they can help us," he pressed.

"They're the ones that lost him in the first place!" England finally snapped. "Without even knowing, they may well end their entire country! Competent is laughable."

"It isn't as though they know who Alfred is— _What_ he is," Canada reminded him. The older country's emotions were clogging up his mind, and they couldn't afford that right now. Not when Alfred was kidnapped. "It will be okay. With their help we'll be able to find him; we just have to guide them a little."

"Your words are idealistic." England spoke derisively. "Come and talk to me when you're the same age as France and I, and then perhaps I'll listen. I've seen the consequences of what happens to a country when it's killed. Murder, instability, anarchy— Matthew, there simply isn't time for this."

"Stop, Arthur, this isn't you," Canada argued. "You aren't this person anymore." England had grown and changed from that time. He had evolved with the rest of the world, and this person of the past no longer had a place here. The quick-witted and blunt country he had become friends with was nothing like what stood before him now.

"This is the true face of the United Kingdom" England replied coldly, "Whether you wish to see it or not, it is as it is. You and I have not gone head to head in a long while, but this is what the United Kingdom can be." The island country turned around. "Now, if you are quite done, I'd like to get back to saving Alfred."

"You aren't England."

Those words froze the United Kingdome where he stood.

"Pardon?" His eyes were nothing like his polite word.

"You aren't England," Canada spoke with growing strength.

"I am, and always will be," the older country replied quickly and unkindly.

"Don't you understand?!" Canada shouted, once more pushed off the edge by his frustration. "You're not England, you're Arthur!"

His words startled the older country visibly.

"You aren't England here," the younger of the two continued. "England doesn't exist in any of these people's minds. You are Arthur Kirkland, Alfred's brother and past guardian."

"_Arthur_ can't help anyone here, they need England!" The isle country retorted harshly.

Canada shook his head sadly. "They don't need England, because England can't do anything." There was a pained smile on the younger countries face. This entire situation was a political spider's web. The more they tried to help, the more tangled and convoluted the situation would become. They couldn't take any actions as a country, or else risk causing an international incident. Canada didn't bother voicing these thoughts.

England knew that. And Canada knew that England knew that.

It was hard realizing you had no power. Countries were the closest things to omnipotent on the planet. They were the world, everything and everyone within it. Powerlessness wasn't something they often had to cope with. Canada had an easier time with it because he was younger, but Arthur had seen humanity at its worse and finest. He'd survived hundreds of years through his own obstinacy. He had been an Empire and possessed more power than any of the other countries at the time. To admit that there was nearly nothing he could do to save someone he loved was a nearly choking pill to swallow.

"Help them, Arthur," Canada urged softly, "They can find him. I know it."

England was silent for a long time before he replied. "If they can't protect one nineteen-year-old boy, how can I expect them to rescue a superpower country?" The question was bitter.

"We have to have faith in them. They're humans— _his_ humans, and if we trust him, we have to trust them as well. He is them, and they are him."

Clean and swift rivers swept down England's face.

"I don't know if I could bear to lose him," England confessed, his body trembled with repressed emotion. "I already lost him once, and that was more devastating than you can comprehend, Canada. Our break-off was _harsh._"

The other country watched him empathetically.

"You don't _know_ how dangerous the situation really is Mathieu." England's shield was down, showing the other country how truly disturbed he was by what was happening.

"We'll do what we can."

The older country kept talking, mostly to himself.

"I got him back after a long time, and many messes," England's voice was humorless and self-deprecating, "And now that things were getting better, where we were on good footing, he goes and gets himself kidnapped. He's such a stupid git." His voice was empty of censure.

Canada nodded, and offered a small smile, "If he wasn't then he wouldn't be America."

England tilted his head towards the thriving, pulsing city outside the window. "I suppose you're right," he mumbled, replying to more than one subject. The flood was stopping, and with much steadier hands, the island country finally swept the water away with a flick of his wrists.

"Let's see if his citizens are worth their salt."

Canada smiled at the old pirate saying. "Their stubborn and determined like America," he replied, "I think they'll prove to be quite resourceful."

England snorted, "Perhaps they will. Perhaps they will . . ."

* * *

><p>When the two blonds re-entered the room, it was apparent to everyone there that something had changed. The English man's posture was weary and almost defeated, though the look in his eyes still bore the determination. His green eyes flicked around the silent room.<p>

"I believe it would be best if we started over," the British man began. "This time with a little more honesty."

His words surprised more than one person in the room, and Neal and Peter moved quickly to take the British man up on his offer.

"How do you mean?" Peter asked.

"Originally, I had intended to plan this investigation without implicating more people, but Matthew has made it clear to me that that is an unwise choice." Arthur sighed. "First things first, we need to clarify a few things about Alfred."

Neal's eyes widened. Was he finally going to get answers?

"Alfred, Matthew, and I are all a part of an international program intended to create larger understanding between countries for the future," Arthur began, "A young adult from every nation was chosen to participate in the project. Alfred was America's representative."

"Alfred is some kind of Ambassador then?" Agent Clinton Jones asked curiously.

A faint smile spread over Mathieu's face. "Something like that."

"It is a joint effort between the countries of the world to build new relationships with each other," Arthur said in a businesslike manner.

"That's why Alfred said he had a friend in every country," Peter said slowly.

A visible tic appeared in the British man's eyebrows. "That idiot," He muttered. "Can't keep his mouth shut for anything."

"Yes, that is why," Mathieu answered the question.

"I suppose that makes him more valuable, but it wasn't as though the kid had any pertinent information that would get him targeted, right?" Hughes asked, mostly rhetorically.

Arthur and Mathieu exchanged glances.

". . . You're kidding, right?" Hughes deadpanned. "I don't mean to be insulting, but the last thing I would do is trust that kid with National secrets."

Mathieu smiled weakly. "He doesn't appear to be very thoughtful or staid, but I promise, Alfred is _very_ serious about his work."

"Does he really work with the President then?" Neal asked, sending most of the observers who hadn't known that detail tittering in the background. Once more the irritation appeared clearly on Arthur's face but he smoothed it over. Behind him, Mathieu merely looked sheepish.

"Yes," Arthur informed them, "He's deeply embroiled in this country's matters."

"Well I suppose that gives us motive," Hughes grunted.

"I'm surprised that you all were able to keep this so quiet," Peter put forth, "This is the first I've heard of it and it sounds like a fairly large project. How did you keep it under wraps for so long?"

"And why for that matter," Neal added, "Normally things like this are pretty open . . . At least the surface of it anyways, if not the actual content of it. They should want to advertise this effort to create close relations and peace."

'_Why hide it?'_

That question was swirling around the room, unsaid. Neal in particular couldn't seem to let it go.

"The project is top secret for reasons like this," Arthur said sharply. Most of them averted their eyes, but not Neal. It wasn't right. There was something still off about the explanation and he didn't like it. That still didn't explain so much. The picture came to mind.

"Why keep this group a secret?" Neal pushed. "They say for security purposes, but if that were the case, they would do that with the U.N. and every other large-scale diplomatic meeting. But they _don't."_

"I'm not at leisure to tell you." Arthur's voice was impeccably chilly.

Mathieu stepped forward. "Let's just say there are a lot of . . ." (past wars, conquests, unforgivable business deals with other countries, not inviting people to the world meetings, ) ". . . _kinks_ to work out before we bring the group to the public's eye."

Arthur sighed. Saying that the group had 'kinks' was an understatement. He frowned lightly. He always hated running this lie, because it took a lot of paperwork to cover. He could already feel the carpal tunnel sinking in.

"Can we have a list of representatives?" Peter asked, moving things along, "That would probably be our safest bet to look into at the moment."

"What part of _'Top Secret,' _are you struggling to understand?" Arthur asked irritably, "Disclosing more names would be a further breach. You need higher clearance before we could talk about it."

Peter's face grew red as he bit back his anger.

"And besides that, we're fairly certain that Am— Alfred was not a target by any of the members," Mathieu said.

"Why?" Hughes asked, "Why rule out an entire group of potential suspects?"

"None would have known where Alfred was," Arthur noted.

Mathieu winced. "That's not _quite_ true."

Arthur stared blankly for the moment before facing an extreme urge to face palm. "Of course, why on earth did I even _think_ Alfred could make it a few months without hanging out with his bloody mates?!" Arthur's tone dripped with caustic sarcasm.

"Including Matthew, I can remember about six specific—" Neal cut himself off, "No, seven; I just remembered that Francis visited."

"Francis what?" Hughes demanded.

"Francis Bonnefoy. He's of French nationality," Alex informed them stiffly.

Arthur began muttering under his breath, "I can't believe the bloody frog visited and I didn't. He even had the gall to leave that little extraterrestrial _freak_ with me."

"What were the other five?" Alex said over Arthur's mini-rant.

"Well there was Kiku and the Italian one," Peter began.

"Which Italian one?" Arthur, Alex, and Mathieu asked in unison.

"I don't remember what his name was specifically." Peter shifted awkwardly at his lack of remembrance.

"Feliciano or Romano?" Mathieu put it plainly.

"Ah, Feliciano." The agent recalled the unusual name.

"So Kiku Honda and Feliciano Vargas," Alex said to clarify.

"Please tell me that dolt wasn't playing call of duty," Arthur growled. Mathieu laughed nervously, knowing just like Arthur that it was most decidedly the case.

"Burke," Hughes snapped, "Am I to understand that you let your charge communicate overseas when he was supposed to be in hiding?!"

"All communication happened at Neal's house which was a general commons," Peter spoke quickly, "Nothing about it should have tipped them off to where Alfred was, nor the situation he was in."

"But there's no barring the chance that Alfred told them," Hughes pushed.

". . . Yes Sir," Peter admitted.

"What about the other three?" Hughes asked, rubbing his forehead wearily.

Peter looked towards Neal, not recalling the other three. He was more than flustered with his lack of knowledge about his charge. In all actuality, Peter hadn't thought that Alfred would really be in danger. He saw the duty more as babysitting . . . And now here they were. Peter realized, much to his horror, that it was likely due to his inattention.

"One was Italian, though I thought the name was Lovino," Neal replied uncertainly.

"That is also Romano. Romano is a nickname," Mathieu answered quickly, wincing at their slip-up

"His real name is Lovino Vargas, twin of Feliciano, as you might have guessed." Alex sighed. They were lucky it was Romano that they tripped up on. It was innocuous that no one would pay attention. Not like if they had called Feliciano 'Italy.'

Neal nodded in gratitude for the clarification. "Then there was that time someone called while Alfred was in the ceiling panels . . ."

"Your charge was in the ceiling! Was there no one monitoring? Where were you Burke, out with your wife?" Hughes demanded sharply.

"Uhh, no Sir, that was actually here."

There was an awkward pause where Hughes cleared his throat to ignore his slipup. "He's still your charge."

"I'm afraid I don't remember who that was," Neal said apologetically, "But then, you were there weren't you, Alex?"

"Yes, if I recall, that ringtone is reserved for Gilbert Beilschmidt."

Arthur made a face. Oh he knew exactly what ringtone they were talking about. Their meetings were interrupted by the dreaded song with unhappy regularity, and Alfred answered more often than Arthur would have preferred. The fact that he usually let slip where the meeting currently was to the not-really-a-country-anymore country was bad enough.

"I think I remember which tune that is," Mathieu said with a faint smile.

"Who else?" The British man asked, trying to move things along.

"You." Neal's voice was carefully blank.

"Arthur?" Mathieu asked curiously.

"The second day we had Alfred under our care he made a call to 'Iggy,' also known as Arthur Kirkland."

The British man's face was covered in a light blush at the mention of his nickname.

"So it's entirely possible that Arthur was aware of Alfred's location," Peter said aloud, his gaze scanning Arthur.

"Sir Kirkland has been cleared already," Alex said quickly.

Arthur's face still turned stormy at the accusation. They had no clue how much weight their allegation carried, who they were accusing of a complete breach of a longstanding peace treaty. He took a deep breath and exhaled. It was a lot harder to remember to be kind to the humans when they weren't his humans— he couldn't feel their history and that oh-so vital connection to him like he could with those in the UK.

"How is he cleared?" Neal pressed.

"He probably knew where Alfred was." Peter seconded.

"We are under no obligation to tell you," Alex said, looking frustrated.

Neal was ready to snap back a response, but Hughes held his hand up, stopping his words. Neal sighed. Once more, the politics of the mission would have Hughes bending to their will.

"I must side with my agents on this one," Hughes said, shocking many of the observers, Neal and Peter especially.

"Special Agent Hughes—" Alex began testily.

"I understand your concerns, but we cannot help you without more information!" Hughes said seriously. "Explain to us how you _know _that both Matthew Williams and _Sir_ Arthur Kirkland are cleared."

"We cannot disclose these kinds of details to so many." Alex's expression was stoic.

"Then disclose it to a few," Hughes proposed.

"Even that is too much of a breach to even consi—"

"Very well."

Arthur's quiet acquiescence cut through the room, creating complete silence. Alex, who was so solid merely moments before fell silent and looked to the British man in deference. It made Neal and many others question who was really in charge here.

"We will take you, Special supervisory Agent Hughes, Peter Burke, and, despite how much I don't like him, Neal Caffrey." The unexpected bluntness caught all of them off-guard. Peter smiled a little. Maybe Arthur and Alfred did have a few things in common.

On one level Neal was affronted, and on another, he could hardly bring himself to care. He was close to finding out the truth, he just knew it!

"We'll use Burke's office," Hughes directed. Peter, Hughes, Neal, Alex, Arthur, Mathieu, Liam, and Luke all filed out of the conference room and into the office with haste.

"All right," Hughes said settling down in Peter's desk chair. Arthur, Alex, and Mathieu claimed the three chairs in front of the desk. Luke and Liam hovered behind the two youngest men. Neal and Peter dragged over two chairs from the other office and set them perpendicular to Hughes.

"So, why is it that you can clear an entire group of foreign suspects, who have the motive, and some of which could have known his _location,_ without any real investigation?" Peter leveled the question at the pair of blonds once more.

Mathieu cleared his throat. "Because we know they were Americans."

"How on earth could you know that?!" Peter exclaimed.

"Did they leave an American flag behind or something?" Hughes asked sarcastically. His previous decorum had been lost as the situation had dragged on.

"No, we know for certain," Alex pushed. "It was Americans."

"Only Americans can _truly_ hurt Alfred." Mathieu murmured solemnly.

"Only Americans can truly hurt America," Arthur said.

* * *

><p><strong>CHAPTER END.<strong>

**I was a fucking inventive 14-year-old. Like srsly, I'm still proud of that. Much will be answered next time. **

**Lots of you were probably expecting humor, but I couldn't find the space to squeeze it in naturally . . . The funniness will happen later. **

**This omake _Taekwandoasskicking _wrote does deliver that though!**

**Thanks again ****Taekwandoasskicking for writing this omake!**

* * *

><p>Peter surveyed the almost regal man in front of him, something akin like a shiver jolting down his body. He didn't know why. The man's posture radiated confidence and he had a gentlemanly air about him. The man had a pleasant smile, but those eyes... they held an electric intensity, a lightning storm encompassed and dulled behind ancient restraints. Peter couldn't put a finger on WHY he felt as if he was facing a destructive hurricane, a lion surveying his surroundings with half-lidded eyes, ready to pounce. He really didn't know.<p>

One thing Peter DID know, though, was that he'd rather Mozzie stop staring at the man's eyebrows so openly.

They were big, he had to admit, but there were pressing matters at hand.

"Are you perhaps Agent Burke?" the man inquired politely. Peter gave a curt nod, reaching out for a shake of the hands.

"Yes. You are?"

The man accepted gracefully, firm. Peter noted how short the man was, yet how grand his presence in the room showed.

"I am Sir Arthur Kirkland, Agent Burke," the man's grip tightened almost painfully, "Mr. Jones' Guardian."

Peter stared. So THIS was Alfred's guardian? The one who shot at him? Peter studied the man; he was composed, a royal-like figure. He didn't look as if he had a temper... From the corner of his eye, Peter saw Alex slowly retract himself out of the room...

Mr. Kirkland smiled politely. Why was Neal sweating? No, more importantly, why was Peter himself sweating? This feeling? Why-?

"Now that we have acquainted ourselves properly, how about we talk about what exactly happened with that twit, hmm?"

Kirkland's casual remark irked Peter. It was as if the man didn't care about Alfred in the slighest! Just as Peter opened his mouth to say something, Kirkland's cellphone rang the tune of God Save the Queen. Kirkland jumped slightly, and blinked once or two.

"Oh, forgive me. I need to take this." Kirkland inclined his head and exited out the door.

A beat.

"WHAT'DYA MEAN THAT I HAVE TO COME BACK!?"

Everyone jumped, turning startled and fearful eyes towards the door the man had left from.

"BOLLOCKS ON A WENCHE'S BACKSIDE!"

What the hell-

"I DON'T CARE IF I'M MISSING A MEETING! I'M ON THE OTHER SIDE OF THE WORLD- IT'S PERSONAL BUSINESS!"

Peter wondered how important the person on the other side of the line was, and how long Mr. Kirkland will still have his job.

"THE PRIME MINISTER CAN SHOVE HIS PAPERWORK UP HIS ARSE FOR ALL I CARE! LET HIM DO IT FOR ONCE!"

Oh my Go-

"Look, I'm sorry, but this is VERY important! Some people took something from me, and nothing - and I mean NOTHING, will stop me from getting it back!"

Peter's eyes widened; it seemed as if Arthur Kirkland's true feelings concerning his ward weren't as they seemed. He truly did care for Alfred...

"How valuable? Well, quite priceless, actually."

Another beat.

"YOU CAN'T PUT A PRICE TAG ON A SON! - wait, what'dya mean which one!?"

Silence.

"I DON'T CARE THAT YOU'RE THE BLOODY QUEEN!"

A beep. Arthur Kirkland came back in, looking a bit disheveled and out of breath. He coughed, straightened his attire, and took a stance worthy of an aristocrat. He smiled politely to the crowd of gaping FBI Agents.

"Now, let's find the ones who took that bloody wanker: I am looking forward to stringing them up by their filthy toes and slowly cut deeply into their sacrilegious flesh as they beg for me to stop wringing them up by their testicles for hours to after cut them and force them down their guttural throats, aye?"

Someone whimpered in the room. Hey, was that Mathew over there? Why does he have a hockey stick-

* * *

><p><strong>Pretty funny, right? :} Y'all should PM her if ya liked it~<strong>

**My fav line from her omake:**

**"**_YOU CAN'T PUT A PRICE TAG ON A SON! - wait, what'dya mean which one!?_**"**

**BAHAHAHAHA**

**PS. anon JennY, yes, the missing word was 'human' :} I'm glad you caught it!**

**Anyways, more stuff happens next time in the fic!**

**RE**_view?_


	20. A Day of Disbelief and Faith

**Hi everyone. Happy fucking 600 reviews. Holy shit I am so totally blown away.**

**Anyways, here is the culmination of everything. So uh, sorry for the wait.**

**ALSO THIS IS THE SUMMATION OF ALL MY HEADCANNONS. IF YOU WANT TO USE A SPECIFIC ONE IN YOUR OWN STORY PLEASE ASK FOR PERMISSION, OR AT LEAST CREDIT ME OR SOMETHING. AND LET ME KNOW 'CAUSE I WANT TO READ IT.**

**Amendment: Some of the more general ones are obviously everyone's ground, i.e. the countries instantly knowing things, the countries being tied to their people, etc. but the ones in this chapter especially I'd like to keep closer to my chest.**

**Ps. UN-BEATA'D**

**AndI don't own Hetalia or White Collar either.**

**Anyways, this is nearly the end. Thanks for sticking around.**

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><p><em>"Let's all understand that these guiding principles cannot be discarded for short-term political gains. They represent what this country is all about. They are indigenous to the American idea. And these are principles which are not negotiable." ~ Barbara Jordan<em>

* * *

><p>"Only Americans can hurt America."<p>

The quiet statement rang clear in the room and was followed by a stretch of silence. It was Peter who finally broke it, with a flat,

"What?"

Mathieu sighed. "This is going to be difficult."

"Maybe if you didn't speak in riddles, it would be easier to understand."

"This is always difficult, especially since that _stupid sod _isn't here," Arthur grit out.

Neal and Hughes blinked at the insult before the former pressed forward.

"Well, try explaining it at least."

"God, you don't know what you're asking," Arthur said, looking exhausted.

"For the necessary information," Hughes replied.

A weary scoff greeted his words. "Humans like you couldn't understand the mere gravity of what information you're seeking."

"Humans like us?!" Peter asked incredulously as Neal's mind began to run in hundreds of different directions. "Where do you get off saying that?"

"I don't 'get off' on that, as you so crudely put it. I am merely stating the clean facts."

"Give explaining a try," Peter said sarcastically, "I promise, I'm a real quick study."

"I am being entirely serious when I tell you that though I might state it cleanly, you won't be able to understand it unless it is shown by Alfred." Arthur straightened his shirt cuffs. "Only he can show you what we truly are."

"And what are you all?" Neal asked quietly.

A dry smile spread over the Englishman's face as Neal, Hughes, and Peter were swallowed by the deep foliage hidden within his eyes.

_Through the thick of the trees he saw a land of change. Old and new marched through the years, creating and destroying past and future eras. Rain fell on the scene, covering the land in plentiful supplies from the grassy countryside, to the stone entablature of ageless churches and castles, to the iron wrought city, gleaming over the river. It dripped to the ground that was thick with history so dark and beautiful and complex that it would take centuries to fully explain. People cowered by fear and disease, freed by knowledge and culture thus grew to be the ushers of invention and the modern world. An Empire, they saw a great empire with arms around the world, one led here, to the landmass they currently stood upon. The thick chains of control had broken, and fallen into ruin and shamble. Destruction followed swiftly and yet seemingly slowly like the idle tide. Though the world had rearranged itself, the regal nature remained, and a calm people assembled and fought. They were strong, yes, they were strong. Things changed, the world grew and shrank. Golden thread still hung here, floating calmly in the air. Though those chains from so long ago had broken, the thread remained, slowly stitching the two areas together. The wide Atlantic didn't seem so wide anymore. Merely a pond. Friendship so special it lacked words, and yet was understandable. And Neal and Peter were beginning to understand, the fog was clearing, and across the dock hung a light, glowing and thriving. It was just within grasp, if only they could—_

Suddenly, the world shifted as the green eyes fluttered shut and a look of pain crawled across the man's face.

Peter, Hughes, and Neal stared bewildered and dazed as they reconciled reality with what they had just seen. Whatever they saw was so immense, so unknown, so frightening and yet comforting— They were still left teetering on the edge of the great unknown.

"In any case," Arthur began in a muted tone, his eyes turned out the window to the New York harbor, "I am incapable of revealing Alfred's information to you. It's physically impossible for me to do so. Not to mention the legal implications . . ."

Though Neal's and Peter's heads were still spinning, the lack of answers still brought them to a crippling feeling of frustration. They were on the precipice of understanding, and yet, they still couldn't grasp it.

"However, _Alex_ may choose to tell you the skeleton of things. Having said that, Alfred is the only one who can really tell you the whole truth." The British man crossed his arms and leaned against the table, looking weary.

The American bodyguard cleared his throat, disliking the attention that was now directed towards him. He knew that England couldn't reveal such an important detail about another country, but he still didn't like that the task fell to him. He was hardly suited for the job. He severely doubted he'd get the immense reality of the truth across to them no matter how hard he tried. He dearly wished Alfred had been beside him, showing them the impossible. One glance and they'd _know._

Just like he had those years ago where he met a young man with blonde hair and cerulean eyes.

"I hope you understand how serious of a matter this."

The looks of 'no duh,' made the bodyguard shift even more uncomfortably. "Obviously, we require your complete and total discretion. You are not allowed to tell anyone the information I'm about to tell you. You may not tell anyone, and yes, Burke, that does include your wife," Alex gave a faintly amused look to the fed who blushed, knowing he told his wife everything.

"To clarify the seriousness of the what I am about to tell you, you need to understand the consequences of what will happen if you choose to tell anyone else this," Alex continued, "This matter is of the utmost importance to preserving our National security. In this information leaks out, you risk our National Security, and the safety of Mr. Jones. If we discover you leaked it, you will be sentenced to life in jail under the strictest of lockdowns with no chance of parole. Anyone you tell will be placed under government surveillance for five years at least. Any slip ups, and they'll join you in your incarceration."

His words made the blood quickly leave Peter's, Hughes', and Neal's faces.

Peter shook it off first. "We understand."

"Very well," Alex said, rubbing his forehead uncomfortably. "Alfred F. Jones is not really his genuine identity."

"An alias?" Neal asked. That would at least explain the complete lack of information when Mozzie ran the background check— they were looking in the wrong spot!

"Not really." Alex paused.

"Alfred_ is_ real, he is a person, but that isn't all . . ." Mathieu trailed off.

"Alfred is one thing he is. Another title though is the United States of America."

There was a long pause.

"What?" Neal asked, voicing the utter confusion felt throughout the room.

"Alfred is the personification of the United States of America," Alex stated cleanly.

"What the _hell_ does that even mean?" Peter asked, swearing in his shock.

"It means that he embodies everything about you bloody people. He is the land, he is the economy, he is the culture. Alfred _is _America!" Arthur spat.

"You have to be kidding me," Hughes deadpanned. "That makes absolutely no sense. You don't actually expect us to blindly believe this, do you? We need some kind of proof."

"_This _is why we don't tell other countries' people on their behalf, we can't prove it without them," Arthur said with an irritable expression. "This was a waste of time."

"I-I am Canada," Mathieu volunteered shyly, drawing all the attention of the room. "I'm Canada in body blood and anything else you can think of."

"And let me guess," Peter's voice was laced with disbelief as he turned to Arthur, "You're England?"

"No, indeed," Arthur straightened his jacket. "I am the United Kingdom and other affiliates."

"Of course! What was I thinking?" Peter looked up at the ceiling exasperatedly.

"Suppose we believe you," Neal asked quietly. Everyone stared at him as he continued, "What then?"

"I see . . ." Mathieu murmured.

"He's already shown you a great deal, hasn't he?" Arthur asked rhetorically.

"Neal," Peter snapped. "I know you're desperate for answers to Alfred and, well, everything about the kid but that doesn't mean you should believe the first cock-and-bull story they tell us!"

"Think about it, Peter!" Neal snapped. "A group of young adults who all hold high standing in their respective governments, yet are hidden from the public eye. All of them _knew _on _sight _who I was, and what I'd stolen," Neal ran a hand through his chestnut-colored hair. "I've never been convicted of stealing some of those art pieces Peter," Neal said, sounding almost desperate by now. "Not only that, but Mozzie knows, and he wouldn't tell me! What kind of secret would Mozzie keep away from me? Nothing. He would never keep anything away from me unless there was real danger."

Arthur let out a small scoff. If Alfred showed this 'Mozzie' who he was, then there was no need to threaten him as they were degraded to doing here. The truth compelled them to be secretive, but without Alfred to back it up with _The Truth _there was nothing they could do.

"And it's more than that, Peter," Neal said, exhausted. "You know that series of paintings I did the other week?"

Peter blinked. "The map of Texas?"

"Yes, and the Nantucket houses, and the wheat fields," Neal said impatiently.

"Do either of you feel like filling me in?" Hughes asked gruffly.

"I drew those while trying to do a blind contour drawing of _Alfred._"

"You're kidding," Peter exhaled.

"No, I'm not. So suspend your belief for a moment and let's hear what they have to say."

Peter nodded after a moment, face smooth of emotions, whereas Hughes clenched his jaw, irritable at his lack of information, but nodded towards Alex, Arthur, and Mathieu anyways.

"Very well, would you like to explain, Canada? Or should I?" Arthur— _England _asked.

"I'll try and explain a bit," the soft-spoken teen said before clearing his throat. "As England said before, we're the people, economy, and land of a country. We're everything, I guess."

"What that also means is that we're incredibly powerful," England added in.

"Especially if you're one of the Big-Five," Canada finished off.

"You see, the idea of him going here in the first place was more or less for show and peace of mind for the president," England said.

"He worries about Alfred a lot." Canada gave a slight smile.

Alex nodded. "It also gave us time to investigate the leak without . . ." He trailed off, unsure how to finish the sentence tactfully.

"America mucking everything up," England finished succinctly.

"It was all for show?" A faint thread of anger sat below the Peter's tone.

"Yes." The isle country spoke bluntly. "We never actually worried very much for his safety; America is perfectly capable of taking care of himself. Besides that, he really wasn't in any real danger to speak of."

"Clearly you should have been worried," Peter said, the frustration was peeking through. The amount of details that had been held back made Peter stumble through this entire case and he hated it. It was embarrassing to say the least. "I think it's obvious now that he was in danger."

"Why would you say otherwise?" Neal queried.

"Because Alfred could fight off any Russians that might come his way with ease," England said casually, "Mind you, he'd have to be careful to not kill any of them, lest he risk an international incident, but nonetheless, he would have managed just fine."

Neal's and Peter's heads were spinning as they were still trying to adjust to the idea of a personified country. The details and strange rules implied by the fact were only throwing them off even more. Throw in the idea of the energetic teenager they had come to know _killing_ someone, and you ended up with a monster of a headache.

"If he killed one, it could cause an international incident?" Hughes repeated in a stunned manner.

England waved it away nonchalantly, "Nothing of any real importance, mind you. Russia would bear the brunt of it."

The casual way he discussed the life of people made the Peter, Neal, and Hughes queasy. Alex and the other two bodyguards bore it with steeled minds.

"The fact that one of Russia's citizens made a rather specific attack on America itself, the personification, would turn the matter rather personal, instead of a national problem," The island country continued on, unaware of their discomfort. "They would probably settle this matter out of any major conflict, —neither of them wants nor could afford a war with each other right now— so perhaps the matter would be dealt with like a trade. America always needs more oil, so that would probably be an apt agreement for them to reach."

Peter choked on the impossibilities they were discussing, and he sat down heavily into one of the office chairs.

"What if the kidnappers kill Alfred?" Neal spoke quietly and concernedly

England's face hardened and they were suddenly reminded of the power hidden within his well-tailored suit. "That simply could not happen."

Neal opened his mouth to protest, but it was cut off by the green-eyed man.

"I simply mean that for such a thing to happen, there would need to be rather extreme circumstances."

"You may not be aware, but Mr. Jones possessed superhuman strength," Alex informed them from the side.

"Superhuman . . ." Peter trailed off uncomprehendingly.

"Meaning that when he was a child he was capable of picking up a buffalo without breaking even a sweat," England spoke calmly. The humans' faces, excluding Alex's, Luke's, and Liam's, went white with shock and disbelief. "Nowadays, though he isn't as strong as he was a few decades back, I imagine he could at least lift a plane and perhaps a skyscraper with ease."

"You're kidding," Hughes spat incredulously.

A ghost of a smile flitted across the countries face. "I assure you, I am quite serious."

The latest curveball wasn't helping anyone, except Neal and Peter, who upon reflection realized that both of them had both seen hints at his inhuman strength. "I suppose that would explain why the creators of Superman said Alfred was the source of their inspiration." Neal murmured.

"I remember him telling me that when it happened," England's eyes were no longer on the present. "His stupid face was so excited . . ."

"Are all of you strong like that?" Hughes asked, eyeing the slender country skeptically.

"No, though each of us tends to have a specialty of some sort, mind lies rather in the magical side of things." If it was possible, the confusion in the room tripled along with the astonishment. England waved it aside unimportantly, "That isn't relevant right now. The point is that Alfred is nigh impossible to capture."

Alex out forth, "Especially considering his skill in fighting."

"Yes, especially so," England agreed. "America possesses more fighting experience, tactical prowess and raw power than any human on this earth, and several countries. He could take down an army." The serious tone in his voice brooked no argument or second-guessing. "Each of us is skilled in that way, which is why it is normally illegal and immoral, and considered a great offense to fight another county's humans. It would be an absolute massacre."

"I suppose so," Peter murmured, completely out of his depth.

"There were so many problems with the population in the early years because everyone kept killing each other's humans all the time." His grumbled as he remembered the matter made Peter and Neal more nauseous than before. England paid no mind and continued. "Thus any wars or battles have to be fought country vs. country, and human vs. human."

"I— see?" Hughes managed.

"Indeed. This is why it is extremely unlikely he was attacked by the Russians we had initially suspected."

"What?!" Peter exclaimed, "What else is there?"

"Americans." Mathieu spoke quietly.

"The people who attacked him were Americans," he repeated solemnly.

That heavy fact sank in the room like a toxic blanket.

"That is why America couldn't fight back full-force," England said softly, "Hurting one of your own citizens is like stabbing yourself in the stomach. It hurts more than you can grasp. Killing them is even worse, it's as though you're biting off a chunk of your heart."

The gruesome images made the assembly both nauseous and horrified.

"Despite this, it is completely necessary." Alex spoke solemnly.

Canada sighed and took on a lecturing tone. "The duty of every country is to protect its people from outside threats. The same goes for inner ones. Though external forces seem more threatening, protecting our people from one another is more harrowing still."

"America must protect Americans from themselves and each other more often than is pleasant." Canada's voice was distressed. Neal, Hughes, and Peter slowly realized that the other man was in exactly the same position.

"If America ever has to attack one of his own, or put them to death, be it lethal injection or some other matter, they have committed a crime. This allows him to take action against them," England continued the narration.

"If all of that is true—" Which is a rather incredible pill for the trio to swallow, "— then how . . ."

"I imagine those blokes were exceptionally careful in how they went about kidnapping him." England bit his nail. "It's exceptionally difficult, but it can be done, given the right amount of preparation and knowledge."

"But how did they know that in the first place? I don't suppose it's common knowledge." Hughes speculated.

"Not in the slightest." Alex agreed, "It's one of the most heavily guarded secrets, which is why you all will sign contracts binding you to secrecy, and monitored heavily after this event. The same goes for the governments of the United Kingdom and Canada." His stern gaze cut off any arguments for the moment. Now was not the time to be dealing with it.

"Before, the matter was fairly serious due to the information leak, however now it has blown into an epic break of National Security," Alex said.

"The very fact that they knew what Alfred _is,_ raises many uncomfortable questions indeed." Arthur began.

"The way the government runs things it can't be too hard to figure out who knows. I mean, there can't be too many people the government would feel comfortable telling." Peter pointed out what was rapidly becoming obvious to him under the layers of threats and paperwork.

Arthur sighed irritably and Mathieu looked slightly sheepish.

"We aren't controlled by the government, Agent Burke," Arthur said with mild irritation. "I can tell any one of my citizens if I damn well please."

Peter held up his hands in a placating manner. "I was just thinking that it seems unwise, that's all."

"It is," Alex said with a sigh.

"We know it is," Mathieu began, still looking abashed. "But sometimes the moment just happens . . ." The bespectacled teen's gaze drifted to the window. "Sometimes there is a connection made, I don't always see it coming. There's a citizen and then I see them. I know who they are and then I know that they'll understand. It's just a look . . . and if they see, then they know."

"I'm not aware of how many people Alfred has revealed his true identity to," Arthur said, "I recall my own count, but it is unlikely that he wrote it down anywhere." He snorted at the very thought.

"Why would you do that?" Hughes asked, "Why create that risk."

"Because they _are_ us." Arthur said.

"And we are them." Mathieu finished. "If they saw, then they understand."

Neal, Peter, and Hughes looked between the two in misunderstanding. Alex exhaled. There would be no way they could understand the importance and special relationship between the countries and their people. He himself only understood a small fraction of it himself.

"How can this be possible," Peter murmured aloud, mostly rhetorically.

"This isn't the first time it's happened," Canada said mutedly. "Russia was attacked similarly in the past."

There was a long pause, and Neal, Peter, and Hughes all wondered what kind of mess they'd gotten into.

* * *

><p>America shifted unhappily as he felt the uncomfortable chains that bound him to a cold metal chair. Two people, escorted him to what<em>felt <em>like an interrogation room if the hard metal chair and table were anything to go by. The persistent throbbing of his wrists was nothing compared to the discomfort of having his eyes covered up.

He felt blind in more ways than one.

America valued his citizens' freedom and privacy. The desire for it helped him maintain their rights. It was good for everyone if they defied the system and challenged decisions. Generally. In the long run, he meant. Most of the time . . .

Despite his appreciation of their hard-earned freedom, he found himself obligated at times to look into their minds. He generally tried to resist unless it became necessary. Even for many criminals he avoided doing such. It wasn't necessarily up to him as an individual to pursue the accused's actions. No, that was left to the United States Criminal Justice System. For better or worse.

Being deprived of that window into his people's mind was more unnerving than he had thought it would be. The lack of complete understanding that filtered into his mind— the way he could just _know_ one of his people— was invaluable. It was so much more personal than the utilitarian policies he often found himself working with on a national level. Those moments were what brought him understanding. And now, he had no way of knowing. Perhaps he should have been a bit nosier, but it was not his place to capture the criminal. Dianne Berigan, Clinton Jones, Peter Burke, and Neal Caffrey; it was their job to do so. They had been tasked with such a matter, and for America to directly involve himself like that would be not only unwise, but an example of sheer inequality. To interfere in one case would be to interfere in every case, or the system could never be balanced. America believed that whenever possible, he should try and promote equality in all aspects of what he did as a country.

He exhaled. America was getting bored. There was nothing for him to_ do._

Aside from good old fashion investigation.

He had a few clues already from the attack in the alleyway . . .

* * *

><p><em>Neal was knocked out on the ground, face down on the rough concrete. America allowed his gaze to narrow.<em>

_America scanned the mind of the criminal before him. Dan Warrell. 34 years old. No wife, serious girlfriend for three years, ongoing. No children currently. Favorite color red. Current objective. To capture Alfred F. Jones._

_America paused. The lack of his true identity in his would-be kidnapper's mind said multitudes. There was a ringleader who knew about his status, America figured. He pushed deeper into Dan's mind, only to find the identity of his client masked. Dan didn't know. There was an ad, and then a phone meeting, and then directions— the number dialed 801-574-****. His mind raced through the area codes, landing in Utah. The owner of the phone was missing their phone. Maude Hamilton had been mugged in October of last year and her pay-as-you-go-phone was taken. The report had been back-filed as unsolved, as many unseen petty crimes were. Identity of assailant: UNKNOWN._

_He exhaled in frustration. The strange leader had a leg up. Clearly he was intimately aware of what Alfred was and what that meant. Keeping members of his organization in the dark was proof of that. He knew that Alfred could read minds. And what dangerous knowledge that was._

_The criminal kept his gun pointed at Neal before pulling the phone out and dialing again. It rang for a few moments before a voice clicked on._

_"Hello?"_

_"He's here," Dan said simply._

_"Let me speak to him," the voice on the other line demanded._

_Without another word Dan threw the phone towards America who caught it easily._

_"Hello, __Alfred__" the man greeted, "Or should I call you by something else? I wonder, which do you prefer."_

_"What do you want?" America asked._

_"Your cooperation."_

_America snorted a little. As if._

_The man on the line seemed to catch his train of thought. "If not, then the FBI will lose a precious little lap-dog."_

_America shifted his attention from the man in front of him to the passed out form of Neal._

_"So, here's what we're going to do," he spoke mildly. "A van is going to pull up in a little while, and you are going to willingly step into the van. If you do so, Neal Caffrey will live."_

_America's expression was steely. "I don't negotiate with terrorists."_

_"I'm not a terrorist. Not yet." The man replied. "But I might be willing to be. I wonder, how willing are you to let this man die?"_

_America just barely resisted the urge to close his fist and destroy the bits of metal and plastic that the cheap phone was made of._

_"Not very, I'd guess. So I'd like to issue a challenge— do you think that you can escape from us? Are you willing to take that risk? Come with us and Neal Cafferey will live, I promise. Refuse, and Neal Cafferey will die. That's a promise too."_

_America hesitated. He would be betting a lot to try keeping Neal alive. But that wasn't all there was to it. The man knew who he was, where he was, and what he was— this needed to end. Even if he allowed Neal to die and incapacitated Dan, he already knew the petty-crook had no idea who his employer was. No, it wouldn't solve anything. So, America chose to bet with his trust in his own capabilities and his faith in his bureau of investigation. He had to trust they could be there when he needed them._

_Just then, the van pulled up on the other end of the alleyway._

_"Time's up, Mr. Jones, now are you—"_

_"I'll see you soon," America said, cutting the other man off. There was a moment of hesitation over the line, and then the criminal started laughing._

_"I doubt that."_

_"I don't," the teenager replied with eerie flatness._

_"We'll see about that, now won't we?"_

_That was when Dan came forward with a piece of brown cloth in his hands. America knew then and there that the man knew too much about him to be allowed to go free. He took off his glasses and hung them on his dog tags, hoping to prevent them from being taken, lost, or crushed as the criminal tied the blindfold over his eyes._

_He would find the truth._

* * *

><p>America let out a sigh inwardly. He knew how they had done it. What he didn't know was how the unknown assailant had figured out the best way to incapacitate a country.<p>

America _heavily_ doubted that one of his fellow countries would have betrayed the knowledge. It was a danger to the global balance of power, as well as being a danger to the country itself. Countries could be taken by their own citizens and used to change the status quo. Not the best way to get change in a country, America thought.

Relations between countries were often tense. Newcomers stumbled through the meetings, still struggling to find their place. Despite any country's individual feelings about the additions, one of the older countries always pulled the new countries aside for a talk.

Because all of them had to be aware of the present danger.

The only ones who could truly harm a country, were their own people. No one had fully realized it until Russia had been captured. The infamous plot would forever go down in the secret history of the representatives. Cruel and incredibly nefarious methods were utilized in his capture, and after the story was told, the newcomer always left with a pale face and slight tremor.

There were several aspects in which the countries united and conformed to unspoken rules; this secret was one of them.

So now Alfred had to trawl through over two centuries worth of knowledge and find where it was he had misplaced his trust so badly, because he had a feeling that this attack had been decades in the making.

* * *

><p>"Russia, the personified country?" Peter asked for clarification. It was hard to wrap his mind around that they were using the names interchangeably.<p>

"Yes." England nodded.

"His human name is Ivan." Mathieu said. "I don't think you need his last name."

"Ivan has a very long and . . . _complex_ history," England said, and all three of the feds had a feeling that what he was saying was a large understatement somehow.

"Well, let's skip the history lesson and go to the relevant parts. You said this happened to I—Ivan before?" Peter said, tripping on the name.

England nodded solemnly. "Russia has had multiple civil wars. And we aren't going to tell you which war it was, bit during one of these, Ivan was captured by one side."

"A soldier he revealed himself too in a previous war thought to use him to turn the tide," Canada said.

"He was _considerably _weakened and his defense compromised."

"His mental health too," Canada spoke softly, regretfully.

"Anyways, 'Russia' the country was being redefined, and the laws of that time were exceptionally loose," England continued. "They managed to kidnap him without breaking any laws. He couldn't take action against them, even if he tried."

"The revolutionaries used him to turn the war," the younger country spoke solemnly.

"They kidnapped the country itself?" Hughes asked.

"Yes." England nodded.

"And held it hostage?" The oldest agent asked.

"They destroyed the regime, bit by bit," Canada clarified.

"Once the dust settled, the Government almost never let him leave again," England murmured. "They don't have power over us, unless we are weak, or we give them power. Ivan was in no state to argue, but he didn't want to be locked in. They had reason to want to keep him safe though."

"I can understand why," Peter said.

"They let him out again though, mostly to prove a point, I think," Canada mused aloud.

"He'd always been a bit off before, but ever since that he's been rather inconsistent and unpredictable," the older country finished before shaking himself a little. "Anyways, _that's _why we know it wasn't any of us or our fellow nations. Besides, none of us could afford to hurt America or his economy. The global economy is tricky business."

"Right . . ." Peter replied, still dazed. In the past twenty minutes he'd heard the most bizarre things of his entire life. Could they actually believe any of this? What if Arthur or Mathieu were lying and making everything up, (ignoring some of the more convincing proof,) then Alfred would be damned. But if Canada and England were telling the truth, then by not pursuing American leads they may well be damning their charge. Shit. This whole situation was FUBAR. Thankfully, the decision was lifted from his shoulders.

"Burke, Cafferey, we're going to let out a APB for the van you saw for anyone in New York or the surrounding states."

Peter took a deep breathe before nodding. "Yes sir."

"What—" Everyone turned to Neal who had uncharacteristically broken his sentence off halfway.

"What happens if he dies?"

Peter, Neal, and Hughes all looked towards England whose expression grew hard.

"He won't die." The older country's voice brooked no argument. "He's alive now, that can be assured. If he had been killed, you would most certainly know."

None of the humans assembled could grasp what the consequences of that would be. Neal thought to ask, but the immense and inexplicable look on England's face made the words freeze in his throat.

"Come on, we have work to do," Hughes said.

* * *

><p><strong>Again, can I say how cool this is? We're so close to the end, and finally things have been revealed!<strong>

****I repeat, T********HIS IS THE SUMMATION OF ALL MY HEADCANNONS. IF YOU WANT TO USE A SPECIFIC ONE IN YOUR OWN STORY PLEASE ASK FOR PERMISSION, OR AT LEAST CREDIT ME OR SOMETHING. AND LET ME KNOW 'CAUSE I WANT TO READ IT.****

******Amendment: Some of the more general ones are obviously everyone's ground, i.e. the countries instantly knowing things, the countries being tied to their people, etc. but the ones in this chapter especially I'd like to keep closer to my chest.******

****Anyways, thanks again for reading, I'd love to know some of your opinions. :}****

**Re**_view?_


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